It’s like a beautiful coincidence.
And yet we swore
that it didn’t make sense
at all.

Three hundred thirty six miles I drove;
Manchester’s Orchestra kept me on the road,
and I hoped if you looked me in the eyes
you’d not say no.

You’re the queen
in our kingdom’s cathedral.
I’m no king,
but I mean well.

I took this Rose and held it all too tight.
Well, I felt perfect every single night,
until you told me
“you hold me down.”

For a time we lived in ecstasy,
had the impression that you’d never leave,
and when you did,
that you’d come back to me.

I’m the king
in my crumbling kingdom.
You escaped
when the ground started rumbling.

I hope you’ll call me at a quarter to nine.
There is no longer any doubt in my mind:
if I could see your face and hear your voice
I’d know I’ll be fine.

I claim to know of resurrection still,
and so I hope and pray to God you will
restore
what it was before.

We’d be there
in that imperfect kingdom.
I’ll hold on
Until the day when you come.