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In the Resurrection Morning
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A song inspired by a vision in a graveyard in Edinborugh, by reading a lot of Bible, and by a Tom Waits album.
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Rob plays things with strings and makes sounds with his voice. Eshinee plays things she can hit with her hands and sings. They both write songs, inspired by eve
Misses and Mystery is the songwriting/performing partnership of Rob Veith (vocals, guitar, bass, and programming) and Eshinee Smallwood (vocals, percussion, and keyboards). They have performed together as part of other bands and have released three albums independently. Diverse in their musical influences and erudite in their songwriting, a typical Misses and Mystery album features a mix of traditional folk, psychedelic rock, and jazzy improvisation.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic Folk
Charts
Peak #117
Peak in subgenre #24
Author
Rob Veith
Rights
2002
Uploaded
February 07, 2006
Track Files
MP3
MP3 6.5 MB • 128 kbps • 7:07
Story behind the song
Written in Scotland. There's a much longer story. Will post it here someday maybe. Maybe the song is long enough without the story. Marco joins us on flute and Leif (whose last name I can't remember) plays djembe.
Lyrics
Rubble is destiny, all that remains— worn down plaques are rain-smoothed and stained. There’s no food for the worms, just beggars and thieves who sleep in the shadows; “sacred to...” they read. It was doctor’s daughters who bought these stalls. It was king’s squires who erected these walls. It was general’s sons who knelt to grieve and the priest’s children who didn’t believe Chorus in the resurrection, in the resurrection morning. In the resurrection morning, tomb’s got to yield up its treasure. Now, the killer was smiling, with nerves made of stone. He climbed the stairs and the gallows groaned. From when Cain slew Abel, killed him with a stone, all that remains is the wind through your bones. A quill from a buzzard, blood rites again, so many twist in the wind without a friend. There was a river of flesh. Can these dry bones live? Ask a king or a beggar, the answer they’ll give: (repeat chorus) The guards closed the tomb, sealed it with lead. Water and nails, they were sure he was dead. Joe drank his coffee from the carpenter’s cup; Mary and Martha, trembling, showed up. A chariot came flying like wind through the wheat. The tombs were all open and prophets hit the streets. The sun turned to coal, but nobody mourned. In the Holy of Holies, the curtain was torn. But, (repeat chorus) In an ancient Scottish graveyard the rain’s cold as ice and all that I can think about is Jesus Christ; and the wind past the tombstones spiral and turn, like the spirit who decides who’ll rise and who’ll burn. If you bury my body, you’ll find I’m gone, like the owl or the sparrow out singing some song; He’s chipped away the stone, broken out of prison: there’s no one here. He is risen. (repeat chorus) Don’t ask about the bell, John, it tolls for thee, floating from the urn and finally free. Satan’s on the gallows and Death rolls the bones; and except for an Apostle, they’re all alone. But Tut and the pharoahs are waxing confused with Robert Johnson, still playing the blues. You can’t book your passage, Heaven got full; The lost’re chained to the world and they pull (repeat chorus) I saw Lazarus crying because he was free, but the rich man was boiling down in the sea; just a one way ticket will get you across— a roadmap to heaven nailed to a cross. From an ancient Scottish graveyard, wind cold as ice and all that I can think about is Jesus Christ. He’s chipped away the stone, broken out of prison; Paradise is open now, He is risen!
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