Hard Rain

"Maybe I'm all over the place, or maybe I'm nowhere," she said,
"But whichever the case, I just don't want to be misinterpreted.
This life is a hard rain--a downpour of random beatings,
But God bless the ones, drenched to the bone, who still come out singing.
This is a hard rain,
Flooded streets, busted river veins.
It's a hard rain.
I thank God for you.

It's a ray of sunlight, that dream you hold there in your heart.
I doubt this world is capable of understanding your abstract art.
Everyone is free to see just what they will,
But they won't open their eyes, and so the wounds like Vincent's (van Gogh, that is...) will never heal.
It's still a hard rain.
Pounding on my window pain is a hard rain.
I thank God for you.

I float down stream so contentedly, nurtured by the river's love
Until I crash onto the banks of all the souls who've lost faith, and given up
'Cause it's such a hard rain.

There's a constant thunder rolling in my ears.
I search for utopia, but it never appears.
I wish I could put my heart into a time capsule,
Unearthed eighty million years from now to a world
Not bombarded by such a hard rain.
'Cause this is a hard rain beating right through my brain.
It's a hard rain.
I thank God for you."