In the shadow of the mountains where the devil plants his seeds,
A lone rider in black whispers through ghostly reeds.
With a six-gun in his holster and a Bible in his hand,
He's searching for redemption in this cold, forsaken land.

The house is up on the hilltops where the moon hides its face,
Silver wolves are howling, echoing my disgrace.
The church bells tolling, calling aching souls to pray,
For the nights too filled with demons to keep the darkness at bay.

Riders of the midnight storm, we wander with the angels moan,
In the land where the shadows swoon, we're searching for a heart that's won.

The old rustic path leads to a graveyard of deceit,
Where every stone's a story of the wicked on repeat.
A ghostly choir hums a sorrowful refrain,
Harmonizing with the thunder of this lonesome outlaw.

Oh, the gloom swinging door creaks like a hungry dream,
Faces pale in candlelight, nothing they say.
Whiskey's in my veins but faith's in my soul,
A dichotomy of darkness where the light has no control.

Riders of the midnight storm, we wander with the angels moan,
In the land where the shadows swoon, we're searching for a heart that's won.

Riders of the midnight storm, we wander with the angels moan,
In the land where the shadows swoon, we're searching for a heart that's won.