When the light is low
I can feel it grow
Like a reaching hand
When the fevers rise
And the noise has died
From the preaching man
When the skies forlorn
And the fate had won
It still keeps me out
Reaching all I have
When the light is low
I can feel it grow
Like a reaching hand
When the fevers rise
And the noise has died
From the preaching man
All the ghosts conjured
Take away the hurt
It makes the reaching hand
Hope is the hardest to kill
Hope is the hardest to kill
It won't die
It won't die until
