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He fills the flower vases, trims the candle bases |
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Takes small change from the poor box, Tyler has the key |
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He takes nail and hammer to tack up the banner |
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Of felt scraps glued together reading, Jesus lives in me |
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Alone in the night he mocks the words of the preacher |
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God is feeling your every pain |
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Repair the Christmas stable, restore the plaster Angel |
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Her lips begin to crumble and her robes begin to peel |
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For Bible study in the church basement |
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Hear children Gospel citing, Matthew 17:15 |
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Alone in the night he mocks the arms of the preacher |
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Raised to the ceiling tell God your pain |
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To him the world's defiled in lot he sees a likeness there |
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He swears this Sodom will burn down |
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Near Sacred Blood there's a dance hall |
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Where Tyler Glen saw a black girl and a white boy kissing shamelessly |
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Black hands on white shoulders |
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White hands on black shoulders |
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Dancing, and you know what's more |
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He's God's mad disciple, a righteous title for the Word he heard |
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He so misunderstood though simple minded a crippled man |
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To know this man is to fear this man to shake when, to shake when |
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To shake when he comes wasn't it God that let Puritans in Salem |
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Do what they did to the unfaithful |
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Boys at the Jubilee slowly sink into brown bag whiskey |
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Drinking and reeling on their feet |
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Girls at the Jubilee in low-cut dresses |
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Yield to the caresses and the man-handling |
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Black hands on white shoulders |
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White hands on black shoulders |
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Dancing, and you know what's more |
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Through the tall blades of grass he heads for the Jubilee |
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With a bucket in his right hand full of rags soaked in gasoline |
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He lifts the shingles in the dark and slips the rags there underneath |
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He strikes a matchstick on the box side and watches the rags ignite |
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He climbs the bell tower of the Sacred Blood to watch the flames |
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Rising higher toward the trees sirens wailing now toward the scene |
