The Charity of Night Bruce Cockburn

[Verse 1]
Big city Europa—July of '64—It's 5 a.m. 
Weather blowing bitter off the Baltic
Car slows beside him as he walks
Hubcaps slow revolution
Jaundiced-looking pockmarked face round in window
Short greasy black beard
A couple of language stabs settle on English
"It's cold—I give you ride
Don't you want to kiss me?"
This goes on halfway across the cobbled bridge
Driver pulls ahead—gets out by the construction fence
Ambles towards him rubbing the bulge in his pants
In his jacket is the revolver
The hand is already in the pocket for warmth
And fingers slide easily around wood grips
Slow as that predator's footsteps the gun comes out
Arm straightens, sight blade bisecting yellow forehead
Wind—blue metal streetlight—
Faint twilight shining on the corners of stones

[Chorus]
Wave on wave of life
Like the great wide ocean's roll
Haunting hands of memory
Pluck silver strands of soul
The damage and the dying done
The clarity of light
Gentle bows and glasses raised
To the charity of night