She takes a seat
not saying much, she tries not to speak
because you'll smell the whiskey
Blacked out eyes of abused innocence
hides a tale of misery
There she sits, way to the right in the third row
as she tries to believe in a power that can save her from below
Her torn and worn jeans have seen many days,
So go on and judge them, the third row sinners
While she sits in a daze
She pulls at her sleeves, so no one will see
Her story carved into her skin of satin ivory
So she watches the preacher with curiosity
wondering if anyone can smell the whiskey
or see her story in ivory
She's a believer, that third row sinner.

He takes a seat
Masked in strength
wondering if you can see that he is weak
His hands shake, maybe from drugs
or maybe from pure anxiety, not just a tweak
There he sits, way to the left on the third row
praying that this isn't all just a show
His face is worn and hardened with sorrow
So go on and judge the third row sinners
While he fights for tomorrow
The visions won't leave him, the whispers
Yet he won't let anyone see his story, as it withers
So he watches the preacher, wondering
Can you guess his weakness
Can anyone see his illness
His story, in the silent stillness
He's a fighter, that third row sinner

I take a seat
My story not one of interest
But yet you judged me from when I walked in the entrance
I have wounds, many scars, and have sinned plenty
Yet it's none of your business, my story
Until I have laid it at your feet gently
In the middle of the third row, with her at my right, and him at my left
I ask you to not judge us, we third row sinners
For our stories will have an ending, just like yours
But many paths leave many doors
So open wisely, and maybe we will all choose the right one
to lead us home.