out your window were seven parked cars
pots and pans under crooks of arms
word got out, and everyone ran to your side

in the midst of this gold rush, the still small hiss
of fresh new oxygen crossing your carpet
feeding your fire, oh, forty-niner,
did you get enough time?

woke up for a nice long while and took a few good sips
from a cool drink of water we held to your lips

all we are is star-eyed sinners
digging for gold in a long, wide river
against the dying light of day

you’ll forever be standing right there
leaning precarious against an old chair
sorting through photographs, oh, camera man,
did you get enough time?

were there pictures in your mind's eye from years yet unlived
when you stopped asking God if He’s got more to give?
just count your blessings; better yet, count the frames
around canyons and sunsets and campfire games

’cause all we are is star-eyed sinners
digging for gold in a long, wide river
against the dying light of day
with our hands cupped tight, man, we’re just poor beggars
digging for gold, learning as we go
to make peace with what slips through our fingers
and what remains

some dark morning we’ll get in our cars, drive you
out to the riverbed, just like you’ve asked us to
wondering, could we ever get enough time?

by then you’ll have made your way far from the ground
but if, for a moment, you were to look down

you’d see all we are is star-eyed sinners
digging for gold in a long, wide river
against the coming light of day
with our hands cupped tight, man, we're just poor beggars
digging for gold, learning as we go
to make peace with what slips through our fingers
and what remains

learning as we go
to make peace with what slips through our fingers
and what remains