Bet some poor Baptist cut his hands good
Putting in these pretty windows
This strange gift from her majesty
Chapel for six nations
Her indispensable people
Joe Brant coughing in the trees there
Tries to lie down cold and deep
But all the lies, there'll be no sleep
They howl down through the bones
'N' howl down through the steeple
The white paint tall in the pines
And bright gla** like wounds in the side
All high up on the ridge there
You squint, it shines
Twice now the fire took the steeple
Twice down in coals it went
Twice built back with some white hands
And that's all I know
Except the ground is full
Of indispensable people