Small Things

Thomas Krane


I asked the God of small things
For an open parking space
He put me in a cleft of rock and
Wouldn't let me see His face

I asked the God of small things
For a portion of His Grace
A golden calf, a grumbling heart
Were nothing in its place

I asked the God of small things
For a sunny wedding day
He summoned water from a rock, yeah
Made the feet outta clay

I asked the God of small things
For the words I couldn't say
Out from my mouth came seven plagues
We were on our way

I asked the God of small things
For a place to lay my head
For forty years the desert sand was
Where I made my bed

I asked the God of small things
For the subtext to His plan, but
He's the God of small things and
I am just a man

This ain't no Promised land, my friend, no
This ain't no Promised land
Take what you can with both your hands and
Move back out into the sand

You make Your wine from water
I can't compete with that
You collect and sell Your manna bread while
I deal with, with real overheads

This ain't no Promised land, my friend, no
This ain't no Promised land
Take what you can with both your hands and
Move back out into the sand