Whiskey Wounds and Sunday Prayers

Bottle’s my Bible, shot’s my hymn, I trade salvation for the burn within. Every wound I wear, whiskey fills the seam, Every Sunday prayer feels like a broken dream.

Whiskey wounds and Sunday prayers, Blood on the table, smoke in the air. The Lord don’t answer men like me, Just pours another round of misery.

I’ve bent the knee but I never rose, The cross was there, but it never chose. If Heaven’s real, it don’t open doors, To a soul that sleeps on saloon floors.

Whiskey wounds and Sunday prayers, Blood on the table, smoke in the air. The Lord don’t answer men like me, Just pours another round of misery.

I drink to remember, I drink to forget… But the whiskey remembers every debt.

Whiskey wounds and Sunday prayers, Blood on the table, smoke in the air. The Lord don’t answer men like me, Just pours another round of misery.

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