With the traces of tears, disappear in the desert where hot winds blow, the touch of a conscience is lost in the ice and snow,
Ghosts of great cities, ruins of empires,
Their spectres arise,
No sign of the living beneath these skies

Minutes are passing, they turn into hours,
The hours, they drift into days,
Oh, Redeemer, lift us above this maze.

Up from the wasteland, like a dream long forgotten reappearing,
Up from the wasteland,
Now redeemed, from a winter bleak and weary.

Dry bones collected, connected by sinews, stand as an army of men,
Filled with the Spirit, they enter this world again,
It's glorious light or grey desolation,
The lines of the battle are drawn,
Jehovah, the rock that we stand upon.

Up from the wasteland, we are drawn, to a glory never ending,
Up from the wasteland by his hand, our iniquity transcending.

All our enemies beneath his feet,
No height, nor depth, nor life, nor death can take us away from his love.