I hear angels can get mean. Even more so than angels, a good woman with breaking heart. A man such as she no different. Together we play those strings. Together, in fine linen we play, onward towards a brighter day. I beckon her and she me. We beckon ourselves together, onward for the world to see. Forever it can only be, the way she moves me in strings of fine linen. I have not yet met her, and she has yet to meet me. We gather from our past, the best that's yet to be. In strings of fine linen, she binds me and I cannot resist. Until we meet, I will wait and gather still, the best of my past to take into the future. Yes, I hear that angels get mean, but more so than angels, a woman and man with breaking hearts longing to touch again.
It's not the life we give away, it's the life we sow that grows, and so we gather together, with or without my love, we gather and sow and we gather and sow for what''s yet to be. Indeed, angels can get mean, and yet we still gather together for the world yet to be. .
Silken treasures strings as gold, so fine, so beautiful, so bold. As she weaves, indeed as she sews, like a cacoon silken made of strings of fine linen. Maybe I'm a seed, and I sometimes wonder what I will be. How will I appear after she's done weaving. I sometimes wonder too, I hear a whisper with a tremble felt. How about me? In strings of fine linen, and with golden fleece and fiddle, and hair that shines like the sun, she too is part of me. Can it be any other way? In strings of fine linen we play.
I've loved so many and I cannot deny that love. I may never hold them in my arms again, but the best of the past I still gather within my angels wings, as if strewn together by strings of fine linen we gather our hearts desire and weave for a better day.
It's like the purest spirit I've ever touched. She prepares me for better days. I lean on memories of the best days I've ever known, and some I've yet to have. She weaves and sews and we gather and sow, and with strings of fine linen we grow under our angels wings. She opens her voice with a song. She's a chariot as bright as the sun. Her warmth I could never resist, so I surrender myself in the warmth of her kiss. In strings of fine linen we gather. With strings of fine linen she sews. A golden harp a background and bridge. Indeed she still plays. The purest spirit I've ever known, shining forth her rays like a chariot bright as the sun. Her moon no less vibrant than she, and with strings of fine linen we gather. We gather for the world to see.
I would give a proverb and I still may. Council is good when we hear, but beyond hearing we likewise do. We can speak of trees and birds and bees, and loneliness if you're alone. Then again, I'm not lonely yet I sit here alone and gather under my angels wings. As if by chance ... I don't think so. As if by grace ... You're damn right. And as if with strings of fine linen, we gather day and night. I cannot boast tomorrow, I can honor those in my past, and in this present moment I hear will never last. I don't know where I'm going I won't say where all I've been, but then tomorrow is just another day to begin again again. So with strings of fine linen, and with a golden harp, with golden fleece and sun above, we have been set apart. She asks to be enraptured and so ... When we answer the call and see, she won't need to ask it for it would already be. With strings of fine linen, her arms embrace my soul. Her golden wings and fire purify me whole.
From the light and darkness, from the heavens and the earth, from the depths of existence we gather both the best and the worst. In strings of fine linen, under wings of gold, with strings of fine linen, we gather and we sow, she weaves and she sews.
We gather, we sow in strings of fine linen. While all I've ever needed, all I've ever loved, all I've ever longed to achieve, escapes from my hands and into another's, and so I bow down and surrender to thee. Under an angels wings, with open voice she sings, and I've lost almost everything, so let her sew, let her fly, let her weave with strings of fine linen. She beckons me. I will follow.
I've never known such beauty. I've never lost so much. I don't fear the devil. I know where I belong. My heart has never been so broken, nor ever been so full. With strings of fine linen, the golden harp and her. She plays such a lovely song. I don't want to resist. Her beauty compelled my love, I could drown in her kiss.
I call it spirit ... My immortal beloved. Beneath my angels wings with golden harp strewn together with strings of fine linen. She opens her mouth to sing and we gather from our past the best as treasure for our future. Is rage and wrath no less severe? Behold the beautiful ones ... They beckon me to safety, for a heart that's pure is worth more than choice silver and gold. Under my angels wings, in strings of fine linen, and with golden harp and song they purify my soul with fire.
The song she plays bitter sweet, the strings she stums like silk. The fleece woven as if nothing mattered more, and so we gather until it's done. I call her a seamstress, a tailor, and I ... I'm a subject, a seed, a yet to be, but going as I subject myself to her grace. It's all I can do and it's true, in strings of fine linen we gather. With strings of fine linen she sews as she plays her harp.
