Jewel was sixteen years old when she wrote Who Will Save Your Soul.
That fact alone should stop you cold.
Sixteen-year-olds write crush songs, rebellion songs, diary songs.
But this is not a diary song — it is a summons.
Every line cuts like scripture whispered in the dark,
as if something ancient seized the pen and said:
Fine — if no one else will speak, I will speak through her.
Listen closely and you will hear it —
the cadence is not adolescent, it is prophetic.
This is Devi’s voice in Her unsparing mood,
naming every bargain, every addiction,
every lie we told to survive.
She does not console.
She does not offer cheap redemption.
She hands us back our life and says:
“Who will save your soul — if you won’t save your own?”
There is a terrible mercy in this.
No guru, no priest, no lover, no TV preacher can do this work for you.
The song drags you to the mirror and forces you to look,
not to humiliate, but to wake you before it’s too late.
That is why this song feels almost dangerous —
not because it is cynical,
but because it refuses to let you stay asleep.
It is not a lullaby.
It is the sound of the fire alarm going off in the temple of the soul.
And the most startling thing?
This is not sung from a mountaintop but from the heart of a teenager.
Which is why it feels even more like possession:
the Divine Mother stepping into a young girl’s voice
to deliver a message sharp enough to save a generation.
Verse 1
People livin' their lives for you on TV
They say they're better than you and you agree
He says, "Hold my calls from behind those cold brick walls"
Says, "Come here boys, there ain't nothing for free"
Another doctor's bill, a lawyer's bill, another cute cheap thrill
You know you love him if you put him in your will, but—
"People livin' their lives for you on TV"
Devi begins with the mirror — cold and unforgiving.
The first image is of a world hypnotized by screens,
trading the pulse of real life for the glow of spectacle.
This is Her saying: Look where your worship goes — not to the sacred, but to pixels.
"They say they're better than you and you agree"
This line is the cut.
It’s not just that others claim superiority —
it’s that we swallow it, nod, agree.
We surrender our sovereignty without a fight.
Devi points straight at the wound: You gave them the right to tell you who you are.
"He says, 'Hold my calls from behind those cold brick walls'"
This is the voice of power speaking through prison bars —
or perhaps from behind the invisible walls of hierarchy, government, money.
It is control disguised as normalcy,
and Devi forces us to hear how cold it sounds.
"Says, 'Come here boys, there ain't nothing for free'"
This is the law of the market,
the law that has replaced dharma in the modern world.
Everything has a cost, even love, even freedom —
and Devi’s voice asks us: Do you see the bargain you are in?
"Another doctor's bill, a lawyer's bill, another cute cheap thrill"
The rhythm here feels like a wheel turning —
round and round, paying, distracting, medicating, consuming.
Devi’s tone almost laughs at the absurdity:
Is this the life you wanted? This endless loop?
"You know you love him if you put him in your will, but—"
The verse ends with a bitter smile.
Even love becomes a contract, measured in property and inheritance.
Devi does not shame us — She just shows us what we have made of love.
It is the “but—” at the end that hits hardest:
this is not the end of the conversation. The reckoning is coming.
Chorus
Who will save your souls when it comes to the flowers now?
Who, who will save your souls after those lies that you told, boy?
And who will save your souls if you won't save your own?
La dee-dee-da, dee-da, dee-da-da, da-la-da
"Who will save your souls when it comes to the flowers now?"
Here Devi drops the first thunderbolt.
She is not talking about abstract salvation — She is talking about the flowers now —
life itself, fragile, fleeting, in your hands today.
Who will protect the living beauty of the world?
Who will save what is pure and breathing if not you?
"Who, who will save your souls after those lies that you told, boy?"
The tone sharpens — the “boy” is almost a sting.
Devi is not afraid to confront.
She calls out the excuses, the half-truths we told to make survival easier,
and She does it not to crush us but to strip away the illusion.
You cannot lie your way into freedom.
"And who will save your souls if you won't save your own?"
This is the line that burns.
The Goddess throws the responsibility back into our hands.
No priest, no savior, no distant deity can do what you refuse to do.
You must turn inward.
You must pick up your own soul from the dust and carry it home.
"La dee-dee-da, dee-da, dee-da-da, da-la-da"
And then — almost cruelly — the melody skips into nonsense syllables.
But this is not mockery — it is genius.
It shows how the world keeps singing,
keeps spinning its pretty tune
even after a question like this has been asked.
The refrain forces you to sit with it, to hum it,
until the question burrows into your bones.
Verse 2
We try to hustle them, try to bustle them, try to cuss 'em
And the cops want someone to bust down on Orleans Avenue
Another day, another dollar, another war
Another tower went up where the homeless had their homes
So we pray to as many different Gods as there are flowers
But we call religion our friend
We're so worried about saving our souls
Afraid that God will take His toll that we forget to begin, but—
"We try to hustle them, try to bustle them, try to cuss 'em"
Devi opens this verse with the rhythm of the street —
the endless game of outsmarting, pushing, clawing to get ahead.
This is Her saying: See how you live? Always scheming, always hustling — but for what?
"And the cops want someone to bust down on Orleans Avenue"
Here She shows the shadow side: the system always needs a scapegoat.
There is always someone to arrest, someone to pay the price.
Devi’s voice turns almost mournful: This is not justice — it is the wheel of karma grinding, and you are caught in it.
"Another day, another dollar, another war"
The line lands heavy, like a news ticker that never stops.
Another day, another dollar — but also another war, another wound.
Devi is saying: You cannot separate your comfort from the violence that sustains it.
"Another tower went up where the homeless had their homes"
This image is a dagger.
Progress devours the poor, one tower at a time.
Devi does not let us look away — She forces us to see who is being displaced so that we can have our shining skyline.
"So we pray to as many different Gods as there are flowers"
Here the song shifts into a bitter smile.
We multiply our prayers, light candles, chant mantras,
but it is often a hedge, a superstition —
more bargaining than devotion.
"But we call religion our friend"
Devi’s voice is dry here.
Religion is not the enemy — but we have turned it into a shield,
a way to protect ourselves from transformation rather than submit to it.
"We're so worried about saving our souls"
This is the tragic heart of the verse.
We are obsessed with our afterlife scorecard,
terrified of judgment, eager to earn a place in heaven.
"Afraid that God will take His toll that we forget to begin, but—"
And here She lands the heaviest blow.
Fear keeps us from beginning the real work.
We perform, we bargain, we obey rules —
but we never step into the fire of self-inquiry, never look at the soul we claim to want to save.
The verse ends on that “but—” — hanging in the air like a trapdoor about to open.
Devi is saying: It is not too late — but you must begin now.
Verse 3
Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill
Got social security but it doesn't pay your bills
There are addictions to feed and there are mouths to pay
So you bargain with the Devil, but you're okay for today, say
That you love them, take their money and run
Say it's been swell, sweetheart, but it was just one of those things
Those flings, those strings you've got to cut
So get out on the streets, girls, and bust your butts
"Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill"
Devi opens the final verse with a feral image — survival stripped bare.
This is no longer polite society, it is the jungle.
People are hunting — for money, for pleasure, for distraction —
and Devi makes us admit it: Yes, you too stalk your prey.
"Got social security but it doesn't pay your bills"
Here She points to the failing promises of the system.
The structures we trusted to keep us safe cannot hold us anymore.
Devi is saying: See? You cannot outsource your salvation to the State either.
"There are addictions to feed and there are mouths to pay"
This line is brutal.
She names the chains openly:
not just the mouths to feed (our dependents)
but the addictions — the habits that own us.
This is Devi’s fierce compassion: She will not let us pretend we are pure victims.
"So you bargain with the Devil, but you're okay for today, say"
Here the song reaches its most terrifying honesty.
Yes — we make the trade.
We compromise our truth, we silence our conscience, we sell a piece of our soul —
just to be “okay for today.”
Devi’s voice here is not condemning — it is exposing.
She wants us to see the price we pay so clearly that we cannot keep paying it.
"That you love them, take their money and run"
This is the mirror of transactional love.
We pretend intimacy to get what we need — then disappear.
Devi is showing us how we use the language of love while keeping our hearts locked.
"Say it's been swell, sweetheart, but it was just one of those things"
This line drips with irony — a whole human bond reduced to a shrug.
Devi’s gaze here is not cruel but sorrowful: Is this all you want love to be?
"Those flings, those strings you've got to cut"
Here She takes a knife to the illusions.
If you cut every string, every bond, every root,
what will be left to hold you?
This is not advice — it is warning.
"So get out on the streets, girls, and bust your butts"
The verse ends with a command — half sarcastic, half deadly serious.
Devi is saying: If this is the life you choose, then own it. Sweat for it. See it through to the bitter end — and then ask yourself if this is what you wanted your soul to become.
This is the ugra (fierce) face of the Goddess —
not to destroy us but to burn away every excuse.
By the end of this verse, there is nowhere left to hide.
Final Chorus
Who will save-ave your soul when it comes to the babies?
Oh, who will save your souls after those lies that you told, boy?
And who will save-ave your souls if you won't save your own?
"Who will save-ave your soul when it comes to the babies?"
Here Devi changes the stakes.
The first chorus spoke of “flowers” — symbols of innocence, beauty, and the fleeting nature of life.
Now She speaks of babies — the rawest, most defenseless life, the future itself.
This is not just metaphor — it is confrontation: When it comes to the ones who depend on you, who will take responsibility if you don’t?
It is no longer only about saving your own soul — it is about saving what comes after you.
"Oh, who will save your souls after those lies that you told, boy?"
The rebuke is repeated, but it now feels heavier.
The lies are no longer personal slips — they are generational patterns.
Devi is asking: Will you keep handing this poison down to your children?
"And who will save-ave your souls if you won't save your own?"
The question lands with finality.
The echo on “save-ave” feels almost mocking, like the sound of a bell tolling again and again.
There is no escape clause.
No savior is coming if we refuse to turn inward.
This is Devi’s last word: It must begin with you — or it does not begin at all.
The song ends not with resolution but with a question ringing in the air —
a question meant to follow you out of the room,
to haunt you until you act.
Question That Won’t Let You Sleep
By the end of the song, there is no neat answer, no soothing lullaby.
The question keeps ringing, relentless:
Who will save your soul if you won’t save your own?
This is Devi’s mercy — the kind that doesn’t coddle.
She does not promise to swoop in and erase the consequences,
does not offer cheap grace.
She hands you your soul back like a newborn and says:
Here. Take care of it. I won’t let you abandon it anymore.
This is why the song feels so raw, so prophetic —
it does not leave you with applause, but with responsibility.
You cannot un-hear it.
You cannot go back to sleep.
The first chorus asked about flowers — the fragile, passing beauty of life.
The last chorus asked about babies — the ones who come after,
who will inherit the world you are shaping right now.
The circle tightens.
This is no longer just about you — it is about everything your choices touch.
In the end, this song is not a warning but an invitation —
to stop bargaining, stop running, stop lying,
and begin.
Because the truth is terrible and beautiful all at once:
no one is coming to save you.
And that is exactly why you are free to save yourself.
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