My God — Bombay Bicycle Club

All the highs are downwards All your fumble words are spent Paying no attention To the thoughts of your dear friend

No point louder The sound of my power Sink in deeper Further each hour My God

When our flower's fading When our stem begins to fold I will take off quietly Like a bird that flees the cold

No point louder The sound of my power Sink in deeper Further each hour My God