About the Song

Kris Kristofferson is one of those rare songwriters who possesses the gift of capturing the raw, unfiltered human experience in a way that resonates deeply with listeners. His song “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” is perhaps one of the finest examples of this talent. This is not just a song; it’s a journey through the emotional landscape of a man grappling with loneliness, regret, and the painful clarity that comes with a hungover Sunday morning.

Kristofferson, known for his rugged, world-weary voice and storytelling prowess, wrote “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” during a time when he himself was battling personal demons. You can feel every ounce of that struggle in the lyrics, which speak of a man reflecting on his life, his choices, and the haunting silence of a Sunday morning when the rest of the world seems to have moved on without him. It’s a time for reflection, when everything is still and the weight of one’s regrets feels the heaviest.

The opening lines, “Well, I woke up Sunday mornin’ with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt,” immediately set the tone for the song. There’s a vivid sense of physical and emotional discomfort that anyone who has experienced such mornings can relate to. Yet, Kristofferson goes beyond the surface of a mere hangover. The song delves into deeper themes of isolation, the ache of unfulfilled dreams, and the longing for connection. Lines like “’Cause there’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone” encapsulate that universal feeling of emptiness we all confront at some point in our lives.

As the song progresses, the listener is pulled into the protagonist’s world – a world where he walks through town, sees families enjoying their day, and feels the sting of being on the outside looking in. This song, in its simplicity, captures the human condition in a way that few others can. Kristofferson masterfully balances the narrative between the physical experience of a rough Sunday morning and the emotional weight of regret and solitude.

“Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” has been covered by many artists, but it remains most closely associated with Johnny Cash, who gave it a broader audience. However, there’s no denying the song’s soul comes from Kristofferson himself, who lived and breathed every word he wrote. His version carries a rawness and vulnerability that makes it timeless.

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Lyrics: Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

Well I woke up Sunday mornin’, with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more, for dessert
Then I fumbled through my closet, for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair and, stumbled down the stairs to meet the dayI’d smoked my brain the night before on, cigarettes and songs that I’d been pickin’
But I lit my first and watched a small kid cussin’ at a can, that he was kickin’
Then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken
And it took me back to somethin’, that I’d lost somehow somewhere along the wayOn the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin’ Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’, half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city side walks, Sunday mornin’ comin’ downIn the park I saw a daddy, with a laughing little girl who he was swingin’
And I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to the song that they were singin’
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin’
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterdayOn the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin’ Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’, half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city side walks, Sunday mornin’ comin’ down

You Missed

“He Died the Way He Lived — On His Own Terms.” That phrase haunted the night air when news broke: on April 6, 2016, Merle Haggard left this world in a final act worthy of a ballad. Some say he whispered to his family, “Today’s the day,” and he wasn’t wrong — he passed away on his 79th birthday, at home in Palo Cedro, California, after a long battle with pneumonia. Born in a converted boxcar in Oildale, raised in dust storms and hardship, Merle’s life read like a country novel: father gone when he was nine, teenage years tangled with run-ins with the law, and eventual confinement in San Quentin after a botched burglary. It was in that prison that he heard Johnny Cash perform — and something inside him snapped into motion: a vow not to die as a mistake, but to rise as a voice for the voiceless. By the time he walked free in 1960, the man who once roamed barrooms and cellblocks had begun weaving songs from scars: “Mama Tried,” “Branded Man,” “Okie from Muskogee” — each line steeped in the grit of a life lived hard and honest. His music didn’t just entertain — it became country’s raw pulse, a beacon for those who felt unheralded, unseen. Friends remembered him as grizzly and tender in the same breath. Willie Nelson once said, “He was my brother, my friend. I will miss him.” Tanya Tucker recalled sharing bologna sandwiches by the river — simple moments, but when God called him home, those snapshots shook the soul: how do you say goodbye to someone whose voice felt like memory itself? And so here lies the mystery: he died on his birthday. Was it fate, prophecy, or a gesture too perfect to dismiss? His son Ben once disclosed that a week earlier, Merle had told them he would go that day — as though he charted his own final chord. This is where the story begins, not ends. Because legends don’t vanish — they echo. And every time someone hums “Sing Me Back Home,” Merle Haggard lives again.