I wake up in Antwerp
In some rich woman's bed
There's a man with a hammer
Inside of my head

She says, "I couldn't wake you
I thought you were dead
But you talked in your sleep
I don't know what you said"

I look in the mirror
My eyes bleeding red
There's a taste in my mouth
Of stale brandy and lead

Don't know how I got here
Or if I was led
But I know it's a Sunday
For the bells in my head

As they call to the faithful
The quick and the dead
The last days of judgement upon us
And the bells on the roof of St. Thomas
Are calling

She says, "Are you hungry?
You look underfed"
"No, I'd better be going
I'll have coffee instead"

"Let me give you some money"
I say, "There's no need
You don't owe me nothing
It's what we agreed"

But the room's like a palace
In a book I once read
And the words that I'm thinking
Would be better unsaid

I search for my clothes
Then she asks if I'll stay
"There's a room for you here
My husband's away"

The bells of St. Thomas
Are aching with doubt
They're cracked and they're broken
Like the earth in a drought

I've searched for their meaning
I just never found out
Whatever they're expecting from us
Or why the bells on the roof of St. Thomas
Are crying

I walk to the church, though it's empty by now
The roof like an overturned ship, and a prow
For a pulpit, and there it is upon the wall
St. Thomas inspecting the wounds for us all

It's a painting by Rubens
Painted from life
And it's flanked by a rich man
And his elegant wife

The wounds we all share
And yet still need the proof
You can feign your indifference
Pretend you're aloof

But the wounds we're denying are there all the same
And the bells of St. Thomas start ringing again

The saint I was named for
The sceptical brother
The rich man's wife
In the arms of another

And the exit wounds
Of a love that's gone wrong
She said she was leaving
But she'd already gone

And the last days of judgement are finally upon on us
And the bells on the roof of St. Thomas
Are calling