Оригинален текст
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them
I've got a question for the wives of the saints
Do they ever run low on words of praise?
Do they ever long for simpler days?
And does cold rain blow all around them?
The wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them
I've got a question for the wives of the saints
Do they ever find it hard to communicate?
Do they ever find their poor hearts filled with hate?
Does the cold rain blow all around them?
The wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them
Here's another question for the wives of the saints
Pray, tell me, is it like the good book said?
That "the saints shall be joyful in their beds"?
Does the cold rain blow all around them?
The wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them
One last question for the wives of the saints
Do they ever try to set out on their own?
Do they ever want to leave their happy home?
Does the cold rain blow all around them?
The wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them
The wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
Oh, the wives of the saints have troubles of their own
And the cold rain blows all around them