© 2026 misscalamity miss-calamity.com ______________________ Where the cross used to be Bolts rusted through A thousand cars below me No one passing through Closed up like a coffin Like a holy strip mall Turned all the lights off and Judgement took it all Sunday morning Nobody around Not a sound From the choir Just the ghost of a liar Sunday morning From up here It’s crystal clear 8,000 square feet Goin up like a funeral pyre Sunday morning King James on the gravel Pages onion thin No more stone or gavel No more endless sin Apple cheek preacher Eyes a little funny “I’ll be your teacher Now gimme your money” Sunday morning Nobody around Not a sound From the choir Just the ghost of a liar Sunday morning From up here It’s crystal clear 8,000 square feet Goin up like a funeral pyre Sunday morning Out on the rooftop Shadows gettin small Room for hallelujah No one left to call Sunday morning Nobody around Not a sound From the choir Just the hands of a liar Sunday morning Can't you hear It’s crystal clear 8,000 square feet Light it up like a funeral pyre Sunday morning Sunday morning Sunday morning Sunday morning
