I saw a dream where I was young
Last night, while I was half-asleep
and in it, I remembered some fragments
of a prayer I used to sing:
You, who make the mountains tall,
You, who make rivers flow,
Your mercy has no end to it, 
Your grace is all I know.

I once heard of a king who had feelings
so I left for a trip to his land
I loved many, and I called it an illness
so I wrote myself a cure.
But the king died before I could get there
and I never read him my poem:
Your mercy has no end to it,
Your grace is all I know.

I’ll follow you to where you lead me
and I’ll shave my head when you’re sad
and I’ll crawl to you, if you want me
until my knees hurt bad,
and I’ll lay my ribs at the alter,
I’ll carve your name into my back,
and I’ll skin myself alive,
and I’ll knit you a hat,
but there is no more I can give you
My prayer is all I have:

You, who make the mountains tall,
You, who make rivers flow,
Your mercy has no end to it, 
Your grace is all I know.