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A determined account of the struggles related to trying without results.
I been writing my Sunday morning apology
Since Saturday week, Got another cigarette,
Or prayer left for me?
So Sunday was a now show
I guess the good Lord slept in
My angels slipped on through the rafters
With all of that cigarette smoke.
CHORUS) Now I?d rather believe in Sunday ?
Lordy, take this broken down soul and dress it up fine
I?d rather be judges by my maker than my man
I?d rather give up this broken down home
To find my homeland.
Purity, you?re so elusive, a whole lot like my home
If I get drunk on these here church steps,
Will it make me holy or whole?
And do you still know my name, Oh evasive eye?
Your mission bells rang ? your choir sang
And I fell on my face and cried.