Into the garden where we lay
Exile drifting smoke, ocean of grey
Crooked on the ground while the rain
Keeps running down your fingers as you pray

I will spit in the face of holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble
I will run up the way to holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble

The needle you lost has found its way
Rusted in the meadow of your faith
Bags under eyes, define your gaze
Solemn sweet like shadows crown your face

I will spit in the face of holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble
I will run up the way to holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble

Holy trouble
Holy trouble

I will spit in the face of holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble
I will run up the way to holy
Holy trouble
Holy trouble