They used to say we'd burn in Heaven
like we did on the Earth,
but who can say they've made
fire out of clay?

Have you heard the good news?
A wrath-less invention,
a burning wheel to remedy
that sick, sick heart of yours.

I'd never stopped before
to think of all the ways
in which you just didn't seem
to care.

One day, it'll come;
I promise you as much.
The sun will lick the tops of the trees,
and the whole world will swirl.

We'll be the reds and the oranges
and the yellows on God's brush.
We'll smoulder gloriously,
don't you know?

They won't hide you
in a fennel stalk;
They won't hide either of us.
They'll let us blaze without repair.

As to whether or not we'll burn in Heaven
like we did on this Earth,
who can say?
I've never made fire out of clay.