Glory Lyrics - The Acorn

Burning rock, in the palm of your hand. 

Treat this place as you're wont to, 

I will make my land, to comfort you. 

Arch precision. 

Pull the ropes with a dry hand, 

Soaked in scenery 

Painted by brushes of hair 

I pulled from your head. 

Don't make this difficult. 

I can't wait for the morning sun. 

Oh, the morning sun has come and you're not there. 

Petals encircling 

Newspapers crumbling. 

Turn the TV off and wait for the writing in the sky 

It could be bad, it doesn't matter 

'Cause those words will just melt into the clouds. 

Don't be mad, my name was misgiven... 

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