| If we’re lucky we feel our lives
|
| Know when the next scene arrives
|
| So often we start in the middle and work our way out
|
| We go to some grey sky diner for eggs and toast
|
| New York Times or the New York Post
|
| Then we take a ride through the valley of the shadow of death
|
| But even for us New Yorkers, there’s a time in every day
|
| The river takes our breath away
|
| And the Hudson, it holds the life
|
| We thought we did it on our own
|
| The river roads collect the tolls
|
| For the passage of our souls
|
| Through silence, over woods, through flowers and snow
|
| And past the George Washington Bridge
|
| Down from the trails of Breakneck Ridge
|
| The river’s ancient path is sacred and slow
|
| And as it swings through Harlem
|
| It’s every shade of blue
|
| Into the city of the new brand new
|
| And the Hudson, it holds the life
|
| We thought we did it on our own
|
| I thought I had no sense of place or past
|
| Time was too slow, but then too fast
|
| The river takes us home at last
|
| Where and when does the memory take hold
|
| Mountain range in the Autumn cold
|
| And I thought West Point was Camelot in the spring
|
| If you’re lucky you’ll find something that reflects you
|
| Helps you feel your life protects you
|
| Cradles you and connects you to everything
|
| This whole life I remember as they begged them to itself
|
| Never turn me into someone else
|
| And the Hudson, it holds the life
|
| We thought we did it on our own
|
| And the Hudson, holds the life
|
| We thought we did it on our own |