Verse 1
On Sunday morning voices rise,
and churches fill with song;
they crown the Saviour as their King
and praise Him loud and long.
But when the final amen falls,
the crown is set aside;
the vows they spoke in morning light
grow faint before the night.
Refrain
O hear the trembling orchestra,
the drums that never cease;
they sing a hymn to righteousness
yet walk a different piece.
O America, what tune you play
while calling on the King –
a melody of borrowed truth
beneath another’s ring.
Verse 2
They speak of deserts far and old,
of stories shaped their way;
they claim each shadowed act they choose
was blessed before the day.
The tale they tell bends easily,
reframed to suit their will;
a scripture moulded to their want
while true words stand still.
Refrain
O hear the trembling orchestra,
the drums that never cease;
they sing a hymn to righteousness
yet walk a different piece.
O America, what tune you play
while calling on the King –
a melody of borrowed truth
beneath another’s ring.
Verse 3
They praise the holy image placed
in every human soul,
yet narrow down that sacred grace
to match their chosen role.
Faces unlike their own become
the strangers they deny;
God’s children turned to wayward shapes
in their unseeing eye.
Refrain
O hear the trembling orchestra,
the drums that never cease;
they sing a hymn to righteousness
yet walk a different piece.
O America, what tune you play
while calling on the King –
a melody of borrowed truth
beneath another’s ring.
Verse 4
And still they teach a gentler door:
to wander as they please,
to wound and sin with open hand
unmoved by others’ pleas.
To sin until their final breath,
then whisper as they fall
that mercy must come running forth
because they’ve come to call.
Refrain
O hear the trembling orchestra,
the drums that never cease;
they sing a hymn to righteousness
yet walk a different piece.
O America, what tune you play
while calling on the King –
a melody of borrowed truth
beneath another’s ring.
by Bakchos
