Mill worker houses lined up in a row,

another southern sunday morning blow

Beneath the steeple all the people have begun

shakin' hands with the man who grips the gospel gun

While the quiet prayer, the smell of dinner on the ground

heals up the morning air, ain't nothin' sweeter around



I can almost hear my mama pray:

"Oh lord forgive us when we doubt,"

another sacred sunday in the south



A ragged rebel flag flies high above it all

popping in the wind like an angry cannon ball

The holes of history are cold and still,

but they smell the powder burnin' and they probably always will



And on the old town square under the barber shop pole,

they sat me up in the chair when I was four years old



I can almost hear my papa say:

"Won't you hold still son, stop squirmn' around

another sacred sundays coming down"



(Instrumental break)



I can almost hear the old folks say:

"You'll make it big one day, you'll leave this town,"

Some other lazy sunday you'll come back around



(Instrumental break)



I can feel the evening sun go down,

and all the lights in the houses one by one go out

Softly in the distance nothing stirs about

and the night is filled with the sound of a whipporwil



On a sunday in the south