Hill up the road, gathering thoughts never adding the way I want themnSweet Jesus show me through the Indian paintbrushnFaith wasnnCursed upon me, a mustard seed was good enough for him and good enough to mennOr after all, will I shake my magic 8 ball, it's bubblingnAnd the brisk walking heartbeat won't tire me, it keeps me strongnFaith wasnnCursed upon me, a mustard seed was good enough for him and its good enough to menPillar of salt, shaker of blacknKiller of thought, turning my backnBelieve you were wrong and said they would laugh and I'm trying to be humble about itnnI like the rain, I like going against the grainnSeems to me I'm cutting out a simple patternnn---she was weak---nnHill up the road, watching my thoughts chase each othernSweet Jesus show me the faith cursed upon menn--she walked away--