Once in a while, you may think you see better than the others.
Scrambling around in the dark with your drum.
There is a time when young men must grow up and be brothers.
Are you afraid of growing too fast?
And the child with the star on his head,
All of the world rests on his shoulders.
And the mother with the child on her breast,
Blessed is she among women.
And the trust we put in things; in small ideas, in engineering, the world of sports and second best; in consequences we will not put to rest.
Why crawl around in the snow when you know I am right here,
waiting for you to expect something more?
For I am warm, I am calling you close to my table,
where I have made us a feast.
For the year of troubles they have gone,
the winter brings a Christmas song.
And the child with the star on his head,
All of the world rests on his shoulders.
And the mother with the child on her breast,
Blessed is she among women.
Does all the world know better than, when Christmas comes the troubles end, the troubles end, the troubles end.
And by the time there's nothing left, an empty tree, a winter vest, a winter vest, a winter vest.
And all the trust we put in things; in dictionaries, in engineering, in calendars, and television, and father's friends, and consequences.
Scrambling around in the dark with your drum.
There is a time when young men must grow up and be brothers.
Are you afraid of growing too fast?
And the child with the star on his head,
All of the world rests on his shoulders.
And the mother with the child on her breast,
Blessed is she among women.
And the trust we put in things; in small ideas, in engineering, the world of sports and second best; in consequences we will not put to rest.
Why crawl around in the snow when you know I am right here,
waiting for you to expect something more?
For I am warm, I am calling you close to my table,
where I have made us a feast.
For the year of troubles they have gone,
the winter brings a Christmas song.
And the child with the star on his head,
All of the world rests on his shoulders.
And the mother with the child on her breast,
Blessed is she among women.
Does all the world know better than, when Christmas comes the troubles end, the troubles end, the troubles end.
And by the time there's nothing left, an empty tree, a winter vest, a winter vest, a winter vest.
And all the trust we put in things; in dictionaries, in engineering, in calendars, and television, and father's friends, and consequences.