Early morning, dreary horizonnAching hands are pulling a millstonenWailing from the cartnMoaning from a shattered heartnnHe’s burned down many a bridgenAnd he’s scared of walking in the darknIt hurts when the rain falls on his skinnnOh he is worn out from marchingnAnd he’s forgotten for what he’s searchingnYet he keeps up the stridenGod knows that he won’t arrive