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lyrics

Sweetheart, please, turn your weathered eyes up so they meet mine,
When they hang me from the gallows made of Carolina pine.
Hang the heavens in scarlet, and clutch a rifle to your chest,
And I’ll meet you where the weary be at rest.

And Peter, please, throw open those sanctuary doors,
The ones that let in God’s light from the ceiling to the floors.
Bathe me of my sins, and let me weep on Jesus’ chest,
And I’ll meet you where the weary be at rest.

There’s a murder of black crows dancing in the branches above my head,
They say, “Do not fear the fall now, we’ll carry you off to your pine bed.”
So children do not shake, don’t break, and do not bend,
When them black birds turn that blue sky red.

And demons, please, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing,
No longer will I listen to the sinner’s songs you sing.
You once caught me at my worst, but now I stand here at my best,
You can’t follow where the weary be at rest.

And wicked men, I leave you leaking out on this upturned soil,
The earth that broke my father as he broke it with his toil.
We will pull your gnashing teeth, ‘cause you’ve failed the good Lord’s test,
Ain’t no room for you where the weary be at rest.

There’s a murder of black crows dancing in the branches above my head,
They say, “Do not fear the fall now, we’ll carry you off to your pine bed.”
So children do not shake, don’t break, and do not bend,
When them black birds turn that blue sky red.

Sweetheart, please, turn your weathered eyes up so they meet mine,
When they hang me from the gallows made of Carolina pine.
Hang the heavens in scarlet, and clutch our youngest to your chest,
And I’ll meet you where the weary be at rest.

I’ll wait for you where the weary be at rest.

credits

from The Roads That Make Men Weary, released November 5, 2013

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Simon Balto Indianapolis, Indiana

Alt-folk. Midwest. Big voice, full heart, can't lose.

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