Saints

before crooked souls stole away god
there were patient men
fountains of trust without names
and I can't understand how you can
take this out on me
I've always tried to clean my hands
when I had the chance
what can I do to help you understand?
there have always been saints
their glory lies in unmarked graves
their majesty remains unstained
weathered faces soaked by decades of rain
pure like soaring cranes
hearts of prairie fire on these plains
but they never talked shit like you do
or hurt people like you need to

rivers flow through our aisles and
grass grows under our pews
we could all be saints