These Hands

F             C                       G
   I wear the customary clothes of my time,

     D                  Bb     Dm     F      A#
Like Jesus did, with no reason not to die

F                 F7                     Bb
   Facing history,   with little to no irony

     F            C              Dm            Bb
Like Im some forgotten southern city, Sherman razed

F               C           Dm              Bb
Still hid under thick smoke after all these years

      F             F7                 Dm
These hands, are my fathers hands but smaller

                Bb
Soaked in paint thinner,

                              Dm
Until theyre so dry coming together,

              Gm                      F
They make the sound of resisting each other

         Gm          Bb         F       Gm    F
A shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touching

Gm   F        Gm   F
Hide nothing, hide nothing