| I don’t know who you are, and it’s too hard
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| To keep pretending that you’re more
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| Than the mark of an old scar
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| That doesn’t hurt anymore
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| And I’ve grown numb of the fear
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| That everything I’ve done
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| Was being controlled by the father, by the son
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| By the holy ghost you’ve become
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| But I would fold my hands and buckle to my knees
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| And I would pray the sky would fall down on me
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| And I would stumble to the shore to be baptized in the waves
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| If it meant that everything we know doesn’t go away, someday
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| And I know my mother cries
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| When she realizes I don’t love you like she does
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| But still she bows her head and prays that you forgive me
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| So what does that make me?
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| The unloving, ungrateful son of a saint?
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| What if that makes me the monster an angel raised?
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| But I would fold my hands and buckle to my knees
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| And I would pray the sky would fall down on me
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| And I would stumble to the shore to be baptized in the waves
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| If it meant that everything we know doesn’t go away
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| Someday
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| It’s so cold in the shadow of their faith
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| But I will not be crushed for heaven’s sake
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| But I would fold my hands and buckle to my knees
|
| And I would pray the sky would fall down on me
|
| But I would fold my hands and buckle to my knees
|
| And I would pray the sky would fall down on me
|
| And I would stumble to the shore to be baptized in the waves
|
| If it meant that everything we know doesn’t go away
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| Someday |