Trailer Park Saints (Alt 3)

I heard a preacher in a trailer lot, Preachin’ mercy with the beer he bought. Said the Lord don’t live in no steeple tall — He’s in the ashes when the wicked fall.

Down the road, a prophet at the pump, Hands like stone, eyes tired and slumped. Said son, this life don’t hand you grace, You earn it mile by mile, face to face.

Trailer park saints, gas station prophets, Tellin’ their truth with nothin’ in their pockets. No gold crowns, no holy choirs — Just broken souls with burnin’ tires. Trailer park saints, gas station prophets… They taught me more than Sunday ever promised.

One man traded faith for smoke, Said hope’s a chain that’ll make you choke. Another carved prayers on the bathroom wall, Said God still listens when the nightbirds call.

I’ve seen more gospel in the sleepless eyes, Than in polished shoes or well-fed lies. Every sinner hums a sacred song, And every broken wheel still rolls along.

Trailer park saints, gas station prophets, Tellin’ their truth with nothin’ in their pockets. No gold crowns, no holy choirs — Just broken souls with burnin’ tires. Trailer park saints, gas station prophets… They taught me more than Sunday ever promised.

Sometimes salvation smells like gasoline, Sometimes forgiveness comes through nicotine.

Trailer park saints, gas station prophets, Preachin’ their gospel through rust and sonnets. No altar call, no heaven above — Just weary hands and a stranger’s love.

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