A bus station, in the steam from the rain nIn this line of pale strangers, should I go or stay? nnThe whole field of vision, fades beneath me now nAnd the houses spread for a million miles, nin this gray town nnAnd the weight of glory, if you held it in your hand nIt would pass right through you, so now's your chance nnWould you fall to pieces nWould you fall to pieces nWould you fall to pieces nIn the high countries? nnWe are just pilgrims of the great divorce nI am witness to the light and I am captive to my own remorse nnAnd the weight of glory, if you held it in your hand nIt would pass right through you, so now's your chance nnYou drink the cup to the bottom, but it burns in your hands nThe cup was poured out on the Maker instead nnOut on the green plains, I am but a ghost nBound up with all that I call mine still the light grows