Look at these hands.
Look at the things they've done.
Look at the things they've seen.
The miles they've gone.

Did Father Lee ever realize
His soldiers' brothers all have died
Dressed in pretty suits of blue
With bullets from their neighbors' guns?

Did Brother Grant ever cry
With his men that mournful night
The day they pulled that trigger
Watching their sons fall one by one?

Another day, another battle
The two men met on the field.
Gray was fighting for so-called freedom.
Blue was fighting for so-called morals.

Both aimed their guns at one another
And looked into each other's eyes.
That's when Blue realized
He was about to shoot his father.

Gray lowered his gun, against his orders.
He couldn't shoot, though he had to.
This was his son! His pride and joy!
How could he erase all of that?

On the other hand, his orders were orders.
Give up his rights or give up his son?
While deciding, a bang shattered the moment
His son's gun was hot; the world was black.

Blue sat down and put his gun aside.
How could he live with himself now?
But he wouldn't have to live long at all
For his brother in gray killed him too.

So look at these hands.
See what they've done.
North and South -- it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters now.

No matter if you're convinced
That you fight for a noble cause,
Everything is trivial; everyone, a selfish child
When our hands are drenched with blood.