I'm on the wrong side of Heaven,
I'm on the outside looking in,
Peeping through a window
At the warmth that lay within.

On the low side of Paradise,
Out along the fringe,
The streets are just gold-plated,
And with corrosion, tinged

Beyond the reach of Zion,
Somewhere across the tracks,
With the Fallen's tarnished halos,
Their wings all burnt and black

I walk along the boundary line
Here I'm forced to dwell-
Not saint enough for Heaven,
Nor sinner fit for Hell.