Worn, skilled hands draw me a map.
Small print and dashed lines indicate my path.
Thousands of miles compiled on a thin paper scrap;
The Cartographer draws me a map.

The map lies still on a wooden board.
Soon, I will take it around the whole wide world.
Compass in hand, I will follow the trail.
Backroads are there if I fail.

The Cartographer has seen what I have never known -
Mountains, valleys, city lights, and old lonely roads.
Searching my desperate eyes, He draws it out for me.
Pencil shavings and veins of ink create the wanderer's masterpiece.

Pencil shavings and veins of ink create the wanderer's masterpiece.

Give me sight; I want to see.
Give me a pen; I want to write.
Give me a map; I want to go.
I want to know.

He hands it to me.
For a moment, I cradle the world in my arms.

The Cartographer has seen what I have never known -
Mountains, valleys, city lights, and old lonely roads.
Searching my desperate eyes, He draws it out for me.
Pencil shavings and veins of ink create the wanderer's masterpiece.

Pencil shavings and veins of ink create the wanderer's masterpiece.