Some have crosses
Bells that ring
Most have angels
painted with wingsOld ones and blonde ones
can find their way in
got statues, apostles,
and other godly thingsIn deserts they build em
of mortar and clay
In barios they stick em
by fire escapesThey outlast the setbacks
earthquakes and plagues
They burn them like haystacks
and another one is raisedin the backwoods of the country
in the Empire State
wherever theres somebody
at the crossroads that waitsThe junction of right now
and a little too late
see one before you
with wide open gatesIts a hospital for sinners
aint no museum for saintsCould be a casket
and bums on the steps
a baby in a basket
being leftIts a good place to shuffle
when youve gone through the deck
Its the closest to heaven
on earth you can getItll shelter a poor man
and humble the great
derelicts and outlaws
can hide for a dayThe worst hearts youve known
can be salvation saved
in the same room that lovers
vows are exchangedIts a hospital of sinners
aint no museum for saintsYoull sing till you drop
then ask to be saved
Well, if its a comeback you want
then get your hands raisedTheres more than a few
on nearly every map
more than a couple
alone on this pathYou want to be in one
you beg your way back
cut off at the knees
and its feet still collapsehospital of sinners
aint no museum of saintsIts a hospital of sinners
aint no museum of saints