His Name is Andrew

His name is Andrew,
He works in a canning factory.
He doesn't have a friend.
He chooses to wait alone,
For his life to end.

    When Andrew was just a little boy,
    He knew all the words to all the hymns of joy,
    And he sang them on Sunday,
    And he sang them on Monday,
    And in April, and in May,
    And he heard them say:
    'God is love, God is love,'
    And he believed them.

This child was Andrew,
He lived in a world of innocence.
On him the lion grinned.
He sang in the arms of God,
As he strummed the wind.

     When Andrew was tall and twenty-one,
     He wandered from God and wondered what he'd done.
     For he still sang on Sunday,
     Though he muddled through in May,
     With a silence in his head,
     'Til in jest it said:
     'God redeems, God redeems,'
     And he believed it.

This man was Andrew,
Hearing a voice he thought was stilled.
Back to the arms of grace
He stumbled through darkened woods
To a lighted place.

     When Andrew returned to love and light,
     He lifted his voice and sang away the night.
     And the preacher from Sunday
     Heard him singing on Monday,
     And he stopped him with a word.
     From the dark he heard:
     'God is dead, God is dead,'
     And he believed him.

My name is Andrew,
I work in a canning factory.
I do not have a friend.
I choose to wait alone
For this life to end.