Silent the sermon sits still, soaks up a story,
A tale about love and truth in excess.
And when the faces drop expressionless and empty eyes,
It's an early Monday morning in a Sunday dress.

You're never going to get to heal this,
You're stuck between the white and black.
You've been drinking like a detective,
It's never going to bring her back.
Release the fellow from his feeling,
But a lie to where he went to be:
Forget a life with no conviction,
Gonna take her to the sea.

Hold on, just hold on,
Come Sunday morning I'll be dead and gone.
How do you sleep? I bet restlessly,
A swollen river's gonna take her to the sea.

A decade of paths, leading to corners,
Constructed and woven from footprints, hairclips and teeth.
Now, under the wing it dawn on the mountains of North Spain,
Set on a distant horizon, South by South East.

A decade of a life for a stranger,
Saves a last shot for sun-baked streets,
Death walks with a stick to a parish
The echoes of shuffling feet.
The bullet engraved and time tarnished,
Rests now in a vestry of shade.
A glass half empty, a steak untouched,
As the storm breaks above the parade.

Hold on, just hold on,
Come Sunday morning I'll be dead and gone.
How do you sleep? I bet restlessly,
A swollen river's gonna take her to the sea.

Hold on, just hold on,
Come Sunday morning I'll be dead and gone.
How do you sleep? I bet restlessly,
And a swollen river's gonna take her to the sea.