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Let The Slave Incorporating The Price Of Experience
Van Morrison
Popularity ยท Moderate
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๐ฌ๐ง English ยท Original
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Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field
Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air
Let the in-chained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing
Whose face has never seen a smile in 30 weary years
Rose and look out, his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open
And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge
They look behind at every step and believe, and believe it is a dream
Singing, the sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morning
And the fair moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night
For the empire is no more and now the lion and wolf shall cease
For everything that lives is holy
For everything that lives is holy
For everything that lives is holy (for everything that lives is holy)
For everything that lives is holy (for everything that lives is holy)
ย
What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song?
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer
To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan
To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm, that destroys our enemies house
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field
And the sickness that cuts off his children
While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door
And our children bring fruits and flowers
Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten
And the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison
And the soldier in the field
When the shatter'd bone, hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity
Thus could I sing and thus rejoice
But it is not so with me
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah
ย