I woke up one day in 1994 in a chateau in France, where I’d been invited to a songwriting symposium, and the words poured out of me in one sitting. They begin: “Your faith is not faithful. Your grace has no grace. Your mercy shows no mercy. Is there no way out of this place?” I didn’t hold back, because it continues: “There’s a baby sobbing softly, in a crib that’s now a cage. She’s done nothing to deserve this, but it sanctifies their rage.” The chorus was “Sisters of Mercy, daughters of hell.” When I first played it to Mom, she sobbed and sobbed, but I think it made her feel vindicated and
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