Let the Slave (Van Morrison)

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air Let the enchained soul shut up in darkness and in sighing Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years Rose and look out, his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream Singing, the sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morning And the fair moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night For empire is no more And now the lion and wolf shall cease For everything that lives is holy For everything that lives is holy For everything that lives is holy For everything that lives is holy What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy And in the withered field where the farmer plows for bread in vain It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun And in the vintage and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season When the red blood is filled with wine and with the marrow of lambs It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements To hear the dog howl at the wintry door The ox in the slaughter house moan To see a God on every wind and a blessing on every blast To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm That destroys our enemies' house To rejoice in the blight that covers his field And the sickness that cuts off his children While our olive and vine sing and laugh 'round our door And our children bring fruits and flowers Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten And the slave grinding at the mill And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison And the soldier in the field When the shattered bone hath laid him groaning Among the happier dead It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity Thus, could I sing and thus, rejoice but it is not so with me