She cast her drag net out on the ocean,
Pulled out a debt and a sinking dream,
All she had left was her devotion,
And heaven knows that's everything.
He staggered blind up to the altar and left a cup filled with a drunkard's faith,
In their disguises they pass each other,
The Savior's eyes in a foreign face.
No, they aren't walking on the water,
They aren't wearing their angel's wings,
Wayward sons and fragile daughters,
A touch of faith enough for small great things.
They're unaware they moved a mountain with fumbled prayers and their bloodied knees,
God's ruined hands; they've read about them,
They've never touched them, but they still believe.
No, they aren't winning every battle,
Life is tough and death; still it stings,
Doubt comes hard and faith is fragile,
Just a touch, enough for small great things.
No, they aren't walking on the water,
They aren't wearing their angel's wings,
Wayward sons and fragile daughters,
A touch of faith, enough for small great things,
No, they aren't walking on the water,
They aren't wearing their angel's wings,
Wayward sons and fragile daughters,
A touch of faith enough for small great things.
