i'm a stranger in this temple of the holy ghost
i'm a stranger to these hands i've called 'my own'
but have never known
and everything that rises must converge, my friend
and everything that rises must converge in its end
then begin again
and everything that rises must converge, my friend
the small and simple songs make known
the light that will not end
still i wander in this temple of the holy ghost
longing to be still and planted as a tree
by the riverside
and everything that rises must converge, my friend
we'll sing aloud our sorrows and our joys
and in the end become one again
(we will weave together all of our intertwining words
to form a song that's not been heard
we will scatter seed among the dry and broken ground
and rest upon the tree that grows)