Some have crosses bells that ring
|
Most have angels painted with wings
|
Old men and blind ones can find their way in
|
Got statues and apostles and other godly things
|
In desserts they build them of mortar and clay
|
In barrios they stick them by fire escapes
|
They outlast the setbacks of earthquakes and plagues
|
They burn them like haystacks and another one is raised
|
|
In the backwoods of the country and the empire state
|
Wherever there's somebody at the crossroads that waits
|
At the junction of right now and a little too late
|
You'll see one before you with wide open gates
|
It's a hospital for sinners ain't no museum of saints
|
|
There could be a casket bums on the steps
|
A baby in a basket being left
|
It's a good place to shuffle when you've gone through the deck
|
It's the closest to heaven on earth you can get
|
|
It's a shelter a poor man it'll humble a great
|
It's where derelicts and outlaws can hide for a day
|
The worst hearts you've known can be salvaged and saved
|
In the same room that lovers' vows are exchanged
|
It's a hospital for sinners ain't no museum of saints
|
|
You'll sin till you drop
|
Then ask to be saved
|
If it's a comeback you want
|
Then get your hands raised
|
|
There's more than a few on nearly every map
|
More than a couple alone on this path
|
You ought to be in one when you beg your way back
|
Cut off at the knees at its feet you'll collapse
|
It's a hospital for sinners ain't no museum of saints
|
It's a hospital for sinners ain't no museum of saints
|
|
-----------------
|
Hospital For Sinners
|
Wallflowers |