Saturday on Beale St. with the drunk and the searching
I hear an old man playing guitar
I can't make out what he's saying
But I can tell you that he's suffered
And that he means every word from the bottom
Of what's left of his heart tonight
A few hours later, I slip into church
Singing songs about saving grace
One guy's nodding off and another hates to be here
And we all mouth the words to save face
It's 11:15 on Sunday morning
And I wish I was
On a corner in Memphis listening to the old man
Singing out his sorrows and laying down his pride
He's telling me his story or at least his side
With no need to pretend and nowhere to hide
Cause we are all broken here
We're are all ashamed
I couldn't fool you if I wanted to
Our stories are too much the same
And what about this Jesus?
They say He drank with the poor and the blind and the lame
Do you think He'd like the songs that we sing?
Or would He feel the same as I do?
What if Sunday School was on Saturday night?
What if their heart-breaking cries of pain
Are the first hymns of tomorrow's saints?
On a corner in Memphis, we're singing with the old man
Crying for his sorrows and laying down our pride
He's telling us our story, or at least his side
With no need to pretend and nowhere to hide
On a corner in Memphis
We're singing out our sorrows
He's telling us his story
With no need to pretend and nowhere to hide
On a corner in Memphis
