Saint Cecelia’s in her garden picking paper violets
For all the wide-eyed children sadly clinging to her dress
Singing blessed be the heavenly, to hell with all the rest
Her salvation is her virtue, but her sin’s her emptiness

Crying I’m unfeeling, she crawled into her shell
How can I be like Jesus, when I’ve just begun, myself
To find my own way back – at times, I think I know me well
Then at other times a stranger’s standing where my body fell

Save the children, save the children
Cried the captain to the crew
For there can be salvation only for a precious few
Who would leave this sinking ship, and build a balsa wood canoe
And sail with me across this mighty water

Saint Cecelia’s in her garden singing Come Into the Fold
But all her little children now, would rather rock and roll
Singing blessed be what is to be, away with all that’s old
Oh, the silence it is golden but the loneliness so cold