Lyrics
Yeah… Sometimes grace come in a bottle. Sometimes it come with a hangover. Woke up smellin’ like last night’s prayers, Half peace, half despair. Coffee black, head full of sin, Still thankin’ God I get to begin. Ain’t holy, but I ain’t gone, Got one hand right, one holdin’ wrong. Every sip just slowin’ my mind, Tryna catch peace one drop at a time. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Bar tab look like confession dues, Bartender nod like he knows the news. Said, “Boy, you talk like you seen the sky,” I said, “Yeah, but the clouds don’t lie.” I’m good at runnin’ from quiet rooms, Good at bloomin’ then losin’ bloom. Still got light I can’t explain, Still find God in the pourin’ rain. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Ain’t tryna drown, just tryna float, Got hymns hummin’ in my throat. If sin had sound, it’d sound like me, Off-key but honest, wild but free. So pour it slow, don’t make it neat, Let the burn remind me I’m incomplete. Grace don’t ask for clean or clear, Just asks that I stay here. Yeah, I still cuss in the middle of grace, Still lose my temper, still lose the race. But I learned peace ain’t a perfect man, It’s learnin’ to try when you still can. So I’ll toast to the mess I’ve made, To the faith that never quite fades. If heaven calls, I’ll answer late, Still smellin’ like truth and mistakes. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Yeah… Some prayers don’t rhyme — but they still reach.
Lyrics
Yeah… Sometimes grace come in a bottle. Sometimes it come with a hangover. Woke up smellin’ like last night’s prayers, Half peace, half despair. Coffee black, head full of sin, Still thankin’ God I get to begin. Ain’t holy, but I ain’t gone, Got one hand right, one holdin’ wrong. Every sip just slowin’ my mind, Tryna catch peace one drop at a time. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Bar tab look like confession dues, Bartender nod like he knows the news. Said, “Boy, you talk like you seen the sky,” I said, “Yeah, but the clouds don’t lie.” I’m good at runnin’ from quiet rooms, Good at bloomin’ then losin’ bloom. Still got light I can’t explain, Still find God in the pourin’ rain. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Ain’t tryna drown, just tryna float, Got hymns hummin’ in my throat. If sin had sound, it’d sound like me, Off-key but honest, wild but free. So pour it slow, don’t make it neat, Let the burn remind me I’m incomplete. Grace don’t ask for clean or clear, Just asks that I stay here. Yeah, I still cuss in the middle of grace, Still lose my temper, still lose the race. But I learned peace ain’t a perfect man, It’s learnin’ to try when you still can. So I’ll toast to the mess I’ve made, To the faith that never quite fades. If heaven calls, I’ll answer late, Still smellin’ like truth and mistakes. Sunday liquor, Saturday soul, Tryna pour faith in this leaky bowl. Every shot just a bit too loud, Every prayer just lost in the crowd. Yeah, I’m somewhere ‘tween hurt and hope, Walkin’ that fine line of faith and smoke. Ain’t no saint, but I still deliver, Tryna find grace in Sunday liquor. Yeah… Some prayers don’t rhyme — but they still reach.
