Waking Up the Dead

There's a name etched on a gravestone —

it's as old as the shade tree high above those bones.

400 years in Pennsylvania

trembling at the word of God not the men who'd rather change 'em.

Well now, time settles scores but not the cold, cold ground.

I can feel it shift beneath my feet as I'm walking around.

And I'm minding my steps, oh my eyes are wide

wondering who they were when they were alive.

Dirt on my soles from a graveyard stroll

picking up pieces of the past,

and the ghosts don't scare me in this cemetery, no, no,

they're singing, "Freedom! Freedom at last!"

Guess solid ground ain't what it should be,

not for all those granite slabs sinking underneath that tree,

not for a house built upon slavery.

They kept telling us to wait but never's all wait ever means.

Well now, some chose the greed, they chose the greater good,

and they're gathering around me as I stand right where they stood.

And I'm minding my steps, oh my eyes are wide,

and I know who they were when they were alive.

Dirt on my soles from a graveyard stroll

picking up pieces of the past,

and the ghosts don't scare me in this cemetery, no, no,

they're singing, "Freedom! Freedom at last!"

Abolitionists and Quakers

peeking through the veil to see the fruits of their labor.

400 years in Pennsylvania (mmhmm)

six feet underground, but still steady as an anchor.

So now, I sense a hand upon my shoulder.

I'm waking up the dead and the air is getting colder.

And I'm minding my steps, oh my eyes are wide,

and I am who I am 'cause they were alive.

Dirt on my soles from a graveyard stroll

picking up pieces of the past,

and the ghosts don't scare me in this cemetery, no, no,

they're singing, "Freedom! Freedom at last!"

"Freedom! Freedom at last!"

"Freedom! Freedom at last!"