Rain on the iron, red in the glass,
Night hit the town and the town hit back.

We came up rough where the church bells cracked,
Halo half-gone and a furnace in our backs.
Blacktop scripture on the soles of our feet,
Mercy in the mouth, but the blood ran deep.
Ash in the denim, smoke in the spine,
We wore out heaven on a county line.
Still, when the sirens pulled long through the pines,
We stood there glowing like a bad sign.

No clean hands.
No soft landing.
Just a little light
that refused to quit.
When the dark leaned down,
we leaned harder in.

Rust saints after midnight,
making cathedrals out of sparks and wreckage.
Bent halos, hard hearts, still burning —
we don’t die easy where the flame gets reckless.
Rust saints after midnight,
dragging a little bit of heaven through the metal.

Saw boys, sin noise, rain in the dust,
Whole sky looked guilty but it still rode with us.
Knuckles knew prayer better than the pew,
Truth came ugly, but it still came true.
We learned grace slow with a fist in the wall,
Learned love late in the aftershock fall.
Cold moon witness, red tail lights fade,
Still had gold in the rust we made.

No white flags.
No cheap redemption.
Just a live wire choir
under busted ribs.
If the road wants names,
let it learn them in the smoke.

Rust saints after midnight,
making cathedrals out of sparks and wreckage.
Bent halos, hard hearts, still burning —
we don’t die easy where the flame gets reckless.
Rust saints after midnight,
dragging a little bit of heaven through the metal.

Hear the chain-link ring.
Hear the stained glass shake.
Hear the dead roads answer
every vow we never made.
We were never clean enough for silver,
never quiet enough for grace —
but the fire knew our faces.
The fire knew our names.

Rust saints after midnight,
raising up a kingdom from the sparks and wreckage.
Bent halos, hard hearts, still burning —
we leave our marks where the sky gets shredded.
Rust saints after midnight,
carrying broken mercy like a loaded gospel.
If the dawn wants proof, let it read this smoke —
we were born in the rust, and we still shine hostile.

Rain on the iron, red in the glass...
Still a little heaven in the aftermath.