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
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, laying down his pride
He’s telling me his story or at least his side
No need to pretend, and nowhere to hide
‘Cause we are all broken here, we 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, the blind and the lame
Do you think He’d like the songs 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
