Saints with Dirty Hands

They built a chapel from excuses Brick by brick and line by line Every crack was painted over Every fault redesigned They spoke in careful measurements Never more than they could lose Turned every wound into a lesson Turned every victim into proof Clean words Cold eyes Fine robes Sharp knives Funny how the purest voices Always need an alibi Saints with dirty hands Standing in the light Pointing at the smoke While they’re holding every match Saints with dirty hands Selling borrowed grace Every stone they throw Leaves another fracture They call it justice They call it truth I call it finding better names For things they choose to do They love a public execution Hate a private look within Keep a ledger full of sinners Leave themselves out again They polish every reputation Till the surface starts to gleam But underneath the varnish The wood is splitting at the seams Straight backs Bent rules Wise men Playing fools Everybody loves a sermon Nobody loves the proof Saints with dirty hands Standing in the light Pointing at the smoke While they’re holding every match Saints with dirty hands Selling borrowed grace Every stone they throw Leaves another fracture They call it justice They call it truth I call it finding better names For things they choose to do The floor remembers every footprint The walls remember every sound Truth is patient as a mountain It doesn’t care who’s wearing crowns Time peels back the lacquer Time removes the paint Funny how the loudest judges Rarely qualify as saints Saints with dirty hands Standing in the light Pointing at the smoke While they’re holding every match Saints with dirty hands Selling borrowed grace Every stone they throw Leaves another fracture They call it justice They call it truth I call it finding better names For things they choose to do Saints with dirty hands Saints with dirty hands Everybody loves the costume Till it finally slips