Benediction Boulevard

I used to pray for a way out.

Now I pray for a way through.

The city still hummin’.

Same brass, same rain, same soul —

just louder.

(Brass riff enters — mournful, then flips joyful.)

⸻

I’m the hymn after heartbreak, halo in the half-light,

Piano in the puddles where we danced last night.

I sip forgiveness out a snowball cup,

Every scar on my heart like a gold touch-up.

My city talk French when she talk through horns,

My pain got rhythm, my joy reborn.

Ain’t no choir without dirt on they shoes,

Faith gotta groove, love gotta blues.

I learned to smile in a language of loss,

Took a cross and made a boss.

God don’t talk, He just hum in tune,

And when the beat drop — that’s communion.

⸻

🎶

Welcome to Benediction Boulevard,

Where the hurt turned holy, the broken hard.

We don’t kneel ‘cause we down, we kneel ‘cause we stand,

Ain’t nothin’ more divine than a second chance.

🎶

(Jon’s piano fills behind, bright and gospel-lush.)

⸻

Every verse a stained glass window, look through it,

See heaven with tattoos, angels that do it.

The halo crooked, the prayer off key,

But the melody perfect — that’s New Orleans to me.

I talk to ghosts, they talk back in time,

Said, “Boy, don’t rhyme for money — rhyme for shine.”

So I wrote this verse on a torn-up pew,

With a horn and a dream and a déjà vu.

Now the rain sound rich, the thunder sound right,

Jon on them keys turn pain to light.

I see grace in graffiti, truth in smoke,

The flood ain’t gone, it just spoke.

⸻

(Wayne over a groove, call-and-response with choir)

Say we bend — (choir: we don’t break!)

Say we fall — (choir: we awake!)

Faith ain’t soft, it’s the hardest art,

Turn that scar into a start.

🎶

Le soleil, encore, mon frère,

Faith still risin’ in the air.

🎶

⸻

🎶

Benediction Boulevard,

Where the past been washed but the soul still scarred.

Every note a prayer, every beat a brand,

Ain’t nothin’ more human than a second chance.

🎶

(Trumpet solo ascends; piano flourishes under choir harmonies.)

⸻

The church ain’t the building,

it’s the block that survived.

We don’t wait for Sunday no more —

we praise on sight.

(The horns fade out in slow procession, like a second line walking into the sunrise.)