Ribbons of the softest dough
Are waiting to be weaved
I lay the strips across the top
One over, one below
A little woven garden gate
Above the fruit and gold
My tongue between my teeth, I work
The way that children do
Over, under, weave it slow
A roof of tender lanes
Unless the Lord builds up the house
The builder works in vain
The lamb stands up with hooves on chair
To supervise the art
It nods at every crossing strip
As if it knows the chart
A brush of milk, a snow of sugar
Sparkling on the weave
Over, under, weave it slow
A roof of tender lanes
Unless the Lord builds up the house
The builder works in vain
So let Him build the bigger things
While I weave flour lace
For both the pie and I are held
Together by His grace
Mmm... mmm... mmm
Over, under, weave it slow
A roof of tender lanes
Unless the Lord builds up the house
The builder works in vain
Over, under, weave it slow
A roof of tender lanes
Unless the Lord builds up the house
The builder works in vain
Ribbons of the softest dough
Have made a little roof
