Nobody writes gospel songs anymore
So few standing now can say "I was born on the floor"
Now we're born wanting a mouth full of silver spoons
We just want our dessert and we want it to soon
We're scared of critique
And growing pains in our knees
Scared of meaning
And anything that does more than please
Our base desires
We're scared of the fire
That burns in another would expose us as liars
Those aren't hymns I hear on your voice
You ignore the truth we've known all along
But new scribes only shout and sing hosanna
In tribute when you're doing it all wrong
The ideals of our youth have all been rejected
But maybe our hearts can be resurrected
Won't call it revival 'cause my spirit's not moved
And don't call it vital 'cause nothing's been proved
Except that you look good in photos
And you know
That you know
Who to know
So that you can go
To your heaven that is my hell
To where we banish ideas and only worship what sells
Those aren't hymns I hear on your voice
You ignore the truth we've known all along
But new scribes only shout and sing hosanna
In tribute when you're doing it all wrong
Those aren't hymns I hear on your voice
It's the sound of you singing the last rites
Of the love so many carved out of so many nights
With the knives that we made of our lives
Well if you are the harbinger
Then I'm happy to be history
Because the dead are better than what you give to me
So let's throw away the metaphors
And not say what needs to be screamed
You gave up our ideals for their false dream
So go on and play their game
Be the moth to that flame
And when your dream goes up in smoke
No you won't have me to blame
Just another one we lost
Who decided to pay to play
And when your dreams have all gone broke
Will you show me what you've gained?
So for all the ones we lost
Who I hope come back some day
And for all the love you lost
Well I'm not the type to pray
But if this is my last song
The last words I ever write
I hope you won't forget
You're only free making art outside