"Black Rider On The Storm" lyrics

There's a black rider on the storm
Waving his hand to the foregone
He cuts his hand upon the knife
And licks it clean to see his dreams
Can't you see the living truth?
Just like the Muslims and the Jews
And the Christians who knew
They were born into a world where they have to die

I grow weary of this world
I grow tired of the games that these men play
I can hear the voice of God calling my name

Here in amongst the brush and sage
I can hear the desert song
How could I ever sing along
If I'm just lost upon my way?
I'm just a poor and troubled man
Lost in a foreign land
Holding in his calloused hands a sacred masterplan
The words of my God, my own way of life

I grow weary of this world
I'm growing tired of the games that these men play
I can hear the voice of God calling my name

I hear the distant cry
Of the ghost up in the sky
Send shivers down my spine
Every goddamn time I close my eyes
As you sit upon your chair with no time left to spare
And no life to repair, oh, death does not care
That your wife's been unfair
And if Justice is there, He is blind

I grow weary of this world
I grow tired of the foolish games that you play
I can hear the voice of God calling my name

Calling my name
Calling my name