He prepares a table for me, and

One of these days, I'll have to sit down and eat

He returns with a carload of groceries

And I never ask where they'd came from

Corrects my hand as it's holding the knife

Cutting up vegetables quickly and fine

For the pot on the stove, for the line out the door

Give me your tired and poor

He pours a pool of salt in my hand

Showing me how I ought to throw a little bit

Over the surface like rain, the surface like rain

On the wicked and righteous, the laymen and saints

Let me fix you a plate

We can find you a place to sit down

Have you ever tried trying to run out of everything you got?