First you sit him down to dinner and you fill him full of sin,

Then you nail him to the highway, sayin’, “Ya’ll come back again.”

If he bleeds, you cry, “Oh, mercy!” If he thirsts, you quench your own,

Then you criticize his faults. Lord, won’t you leave the man alone?

Gotta find that living water. Gonna dig that well somehow.

Gotta get behind that stubborn mule and work that gospel plough.

Though he dresses like Siddhartha, he’s a Steppenwolf at heart.

Got a martyr’s education; he’s made suffering an art.

Found out early in the garden when the viper bared its fangs,

A diploma’s only value is the wall on which it hangs.

Gotta learn to take up serpents. Don’t be holier than thou.

Gotta get behind that stubborn mule and work that gospel plough.

Now he parallels the main line, slow and steady headin’ south,

On the paved and undivided with a matchstick in his mouth.

He’ll be gone this time forever. You can take that to the bank.

Have your right hand shake your left because there’s no one else to thank.

Gotta bear the yoke and love it while you wipe your sweaty brow.

Gotta get behind that stubborn mule and work that gospel plough.

And you wonder why you’re still waiting for his return?