Our Lady of the Lash – Lyrics

Title: Our Lady of the Lash
Artist: Loui Crow
Streaming: All platforms
📱 TikTok/FB/YouTube/IG: @louicrow

🖤 ABOUT THE SONG — Our Lady of the Lash

I didn’t grow up with scripture in my mouth. There were no Bibles cracked open at the table, no verses quoted to me at bedtime. Religion wasn’t allowed in my house. But it still lived there—like mold in the drywall.

The ghost came through expectation, not recitation. I was raised under a woman who had been raised under strict religion. She was the goodest girl. She learned obedience so well that she didn’t need to quote scripture to pass it down. The silence carried it. The smile and service carried it. The rules were written in what went unsaid.

So even without church, I still learned the catechism of being small. Don’t argue. Don’t rage. Don’t want too much. Holiness wasn’t preached, it was performed. And that performance became the choke at my throat.

This song is me breaking that gag. It’s me crowning the rage that was always holy. It’s me saying Our Lady is not the hush—it’s the scream that wouldn’t die.

🔥 What Religious Silence Really Is

Silence is a scripture all its own. It shackles the breath before the word can form. It makes obedience look beautiful, and calls collapse “grace.”

This is what happens when belief is sewn into the body instead of spoken: you inherit the posture of prayer without ever touching the text. You kneel because your bloodline knelt. You swallow because that’s what survival taught.

Religion, whether quoted or not, builds its architecture in the nervous system. It trains women to be vessels, not voices. To be chalices, not flames. The body becomes the church—hips for altars, breasts for offerings, mouths for silence.

The old occult voices said it too: every creed is a cage unless the self stands sovereign. The truest sacrament is not suffering but liberation. The veil is not holy—it’s a gag.

And this is where the rake comes in.

For me it’s personal—I forged it as my own ritual tool, the way I dig grief out of hiding. But it’s also archetypal: a rake has always been in women’s hands, teeth dragging across the ground, unearthing what’s buried. Every stroke is lineage work. Every tine pulls up another silence, another shame, another “good girl” that got pressed into the soil.

With the rake, I refuse to let the ground keep its secrets. I name them. I raise them. I burn them.

This song is one of those rake strokes. It names mascara as gospel. It calls stretch marks holy. It takes the gag off the mother’s mouth and lets her rage become scripture.

🗣️ Crow Affirmation

“My scars are scripture.”

🖤

Holiness isn’t hush.
Holiness is rage that survived.
I won’t be canonized as mute.
I’ll be remembered as loud.

Lyrics: Our Lady of the Lash

[intro — spoken like a prayer, whispered, minimal pads, faint church bells]
This is Mary with the veil off.
Mascara dripping. Stretch marks glowing.
She’s tired of being the soft one.
Our Lady of the Lash—patron of the bent.
Mother of mascara and silence.
Witness me.

[verse 1 — dark trap beat enters, low 808s, steady hi-hats, delivery rhythmic but restrained]
I wear rosary beads like a choke at the throat,
Every prayer is a shackle, each decade a note.
The world gives Mary a gag and a glow,
Every Stained glass mother has her mouth closed.
They don’t call blessed the women who fight,
They call blessed the girls who stay quiet at night.
They say “art thou” but they whisper it low,
Because silence is holy and suffering shows.
My yes is assumed, my body is loaned,
My womb is a chalice the church never owned.
They call holy the hush, they call silence divine,
They call pain obedience, they canonize crime.
They turn guilt into gospel, spin shame into proof,
Make martyrs of mothers, and saints of the mute.
I draw lashes like iron, black bars on my cell,
I look strong in the glass as I walk into hell.

[pre-chorus — drums drop, whispered-to-growl delivery, breaths between lines]
Our Lady of the Lash—I don’t bow,
Hail no Father, I am God now.
Blessed be the scream they tried to erase,
I carve my gospel on my own face.
HAIL NO gospel, HAIL NO grief,
The mother, the martyr, the Christ is me.

[chorus — full beat hits, chant-like, layered whispers + raspy lead, faint choir synths]
Our Lady of the Lash—steals heaven here,
Our Lady of the Lash—breaks chains of fear.
Splintered spines hold cathedrals upright,
She blesses the bent who still dare to fight.
Our Lady of the Lash—communion is skin,
Our Lady of the Lash—cross collapses within.
Glory to the hunger that broke through the fast,
Blessed are the mothers who carried the past.

[verse 2 — beat steady, darker textures added, delivery faster, more biting]
Wrapped ‘round their fingers like prayer is a chain,
I beg for a god who ignores all my pain.
I beg for a God—then I find her within,
The mother they painted was buried in sin.
What if “holy” was fear in a dress?
What if halo was built to oppress?
What if veil was a gag they designed?
What if rosary shackled the mind?
What if her lullabies carried regret?
What if her silence was prayer unmet?
What if God trembled, mascara smeared black?
What if her gospel was scars on her back?
What if God was a woman they locked in the hush?
What if God was a woman they branded “too much”?
What if holy bled through her skin?
What if Christ they slayed was within?

[bridge — beat strips down, organ/choir pad, delivery half-whisper half-shout, rising intensity]
I am the chalice, I am the wine.
I bleed for myself and I call it divine.
Our Lady of the Lash—scripture in scars,
Communion is breath, resurrection is ours.
I am God, I am Mother, I am Christ—
Not their silence, not their sacrifice.
Every scar on me is scripture,
Every scream I breathe is gospel.

[chorus — full beat returns, layered with distorted choir samples, delivery chant-like, mantra energy]
Our Lady of the Lash—steals heaven here,
Our Lady of the Lash—breaks chains of fear.
Splintered spines hold cathedrals upright,
She blesses the bent who still dare to fight.
Our Lady of the Lash—communion is skin,
Our Lady of the Lash—cross collapses within.
Glory to the hunger that broke through the fast,
Blessed are the mothers who carried the past.

[outro — spoken like a prayer, echo/reverb heavy, organ drone, whispered intensity]
My blood is not burden, my love is not loss,
My son is not sentenced to carry my cross.
No one can command what my body should feel,
My child will never kneel.