You're not the sun, it's just

a light, Waking ealry Sunday

morning, You're not my church,

it's just the belles, Ringing

sweetly through the house, And in

this sense of mine, You're not an

answer, and I'm not this prayer.

You're still in reach, I please

myself, Wasting early Sunday

morning, You're not my lead,

You're just my help, Talk the 

edge off sheardenial, And in this

state of mine, you're what I want,

nothing close to what I need.

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in.

Suit yourself, lose myself,

Breaking early Sunday morning,

You're not the sun, you're not

my church, I still hold some self-

control, But in this sense of

mine, I'm still too high, look

no hands.

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in,

I breathe you in.