i don my sunday dress today, its first time being worn
i remember the first sunday, i remember being born
from when my virgin mother's womb this sweet vessel was torn
back when my skin would bleed with every single piercing thorn

and now they have forgotten, though it lines the chapel halls
that i promised i'd return to man's poor wretched calls
they've been stained by their sins like to glass upon the walls
but for me it's easy to catch a body as it falls

between chapped lips and yellowed tusks, the old men sing a sacred song
eyelids encrusted with the jewels of poor, they say the words all wrong
denying me what i desire, the father, son, and holy ghost
and on their tongues they taste the brittle flesh, the thing i want the most

a piece of bread, anoint my head, flaking off like dead skin, it goes
into a bottle with the blood poured in my cup which overflows
the lengths i'd go, the things i'd do for just a taste of sacred wine
that makes the men of reason go sad mad, they sing, insane and blind

their madness i already have, its they sight i seem
i claw up at their eyes like i am trying to see beneath
and all the songs of martyred men taste wrong against their teeth
i'll cut off all their tongues so they can only sing for me

and when their throats are raw and hoarse i'll know they've done their best
they'll look just like the sinners that they so deeply detest
i'll finish this tomorrow, for this is the day of rest
i lie down on the chapel floor, i smoothe my sunday dress