The door it opened slowly,
my father he came in,
i was nine years old.
and he stood so tall above me,
his blue eyes they were shining
and his voice was very cold.
he said, "i've had a vision
and you know i'm strong and holy,
i must do what i've been told."
so he started up the mountain,
i was running, he was walking,
and his axe was made of gold.
Well, the trees they got much smaller,
the lake a lady's mirror,
we stopped to drink some wine.
then he threw the bottle over.
broke a minute later
and he put his hand on mine.
thought i saw an eagle
but it might have been a vulture,
i never could decide.
then my father built an altar,
he looked once behind his shoulder,
he knew i would not hide.
You who build these altars now
to sacrifice these children,
you must not do it anymore.
a scheme is not a vision
and you never have been tempted
by a demon or a god.
you who stand above them now,
your hatchets blunt and bloody,
you were not there before,
when i lay upon a mountain
and my father's hand was trembling
with the beauty of the word.
And if you call me brother now,
forgive me if i inquire,
"just according to whose plan?"
when it all comes down to dust
i will kill you if i must,
i will help you if i can.
when it all comes down to dust
i will help you if i must,
i will kill you if i can.
and mercy on our uniform,
man of peace or man of war,
the peacock spreads his fan.