“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”
Introduction

Picture this: you’re sitting on a porch swing, the kind that creaks just right, with a sunset bleeding orange and pink across the sky. There’s a glass of something strong in your hand, and Merle Haggard’s Heaven Was a Drink of Wine is pouring out of an old radio. That’s the vibe of this song—a raw, soul-stirring moment where life’s highs and lows collide in a single, perfect sip. Written by Sanger D. Shafer and released in 1979 on Haggard’s Serving 190 Proof album, this track is pure country heartbreak, wrapped in a melody that feels like a warm, bittersweet hug.

What makes this song hit so hard? It’s the way it captures that fleeting escape we all chase—when a drink, a memory, or a fleeting moment feels like touching heaven itself. Merle’s voice, weathered and wise, tells the story of a man who’s been through the wringer, finding solace in the bottle but knowing it’s a fleeting kind of salvation. The lyrics are simple but cut deep: “Heaven was a drink of wine / And losin’ you was hell on earth.” It’s not just about love lost; it’s about the ache of trying to hold onto something good in a world that keeps slipping through your fingers.

There’s a story behind the song, too, one that feels like it was born in a smoky bar. Shafer wrote it with Haggard’s life in mind—Merle’s struggles with love, liquor, and the road all bleed into the track. You can almost see him in the studio, eyes closed, pouring every ounce of his soul into the microphone. And that steel guitar? It’s like a cry from the heart, weaving through the chords to remind you that pain and beauty are two sides of the same coin.

Why does this song still matter? Because it’s universal. Whether you’re nursing a broken heart or just craving a moment of peace, Heaven Was a Drink of Wine feels like it was written for you. It’s the kind of song that makes you want to call an old friend, crack open a bottle, and talk about the things that matter—or maybe just sit in silence and let the music say it all. Ever had a moment where a song felt like it knew you better than you know yourself? That’s what Merle does here.

So, next time you’re feeling a little lost, put this one on. Let it take you somewhere soft and sad and strangely hopeful. Because if heaven’s a drink of wine, this song is the glass it’s poured into.

Video

Lyrics

That psycho, that psychologist
Asked me about my drinking ways
Every question that he asked me
All related back on to my childhood days
But if the truth was known
I never took the drinking long, long as she was mine
But when she left me I went to hell
Heaven was a drink of wine
That good doctor said, “Look at all
These ink spots and tell me what you see
Could I help it if they all look like
Big ol’ broken hearts to me?”
Ah, my friends in Cane’ll tell you
Ol’ Haggard ain’t a drinking kind
But when she left me I went to hell
And heaven was a drink of wine
Get back, get back
Get on back and leave me alone
Can’t you see that you can’t help
A man that’s just for gone
Hey, good doctor, I’ve got something
You can’t find in my mind
When she left me I went to hell
Heaven was a drink of wine
Hey, good doctor
Heaven was a drink of wine

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TWELVE YEARS AFTER WALKING OUT OF SAN QUENTIN, THE FORMER INMATE HAD BECOME ONE OF THE BIGGEST COUNTRY STARS IN AMERICA. THEN CALIFORNIA’S GOVERNOR SIGNED THE PAPER THAT FINALLY REMOVED THE OLD CONVICTIONS HANGING OVER MERLE HAGGARD’S LIFE. Merle Haggard left San Quentin in 1960, but prison did not simply disappear when the gate closed behind him. He had been convicted in Kern County of second-degree burglary and escape without force after years of arrests, reform schools and failed attempts to straighten himself out. California’s official clemency record shows that Haggard served two years and nine months in prison, followed by more than two years on parole. He was discharged from his sentence in 1963. By then, his second life had already begun. Haggard worked labor jobs, played bass for Wynn Stewart and slowly built a recording career in Bakersfield. By the end of the 1960s, “Mama Tried,” “Sing Me Back Home,” “Workin’ Man Blues” and “Okie from Muskogee” had made the former prisoner one of country music’s dominant stars. Success, however, did not erase the conviction. In July 1971, California’s Adult Authority formally recommended a pardon on the grounds of rehabilitation. Because Haggard had more than one felony conviction, the matter also went before the California Supreme Court. The justices recommended clemency that October. On **March 1, 1972**, Governor Ronald Reagan granted the full pardon. That date comes directly from Reagan’s official report to the California legislature. For Haggard, the meaning went beyond public relations. He later spoke of the pardon as a genuine second chance—relief from having to carry the legal status of an ex-convict into parts of his adult life even after years of proving that the young man sent to San Quentin no longer existed in the same form. There was one more scene waiting. Ten years later, Reagan was president. In March 1982, Haggard performed for him at a private concert in California. Before singing, Merle joked that he hoped Reagan would be as pleased with the performance as he had been with the pardon. Then he added another line: he had come to “beg your pardon one more time.” Reagan laughed. By then, the prison number **A-45200** belonged to an old government file. The man attached to it was standing in front of the president with a guitar.

HANK WILLIAMS ONCE LEFT THE GRAND OLE OPRY STAGE TO SIX ENCORES. THREE YEARS LATER, THE OPRY FIRED HIM FOR MISSED SHOWS AND DRUNKENNESS — WHILE HIS RECORDS WERE STILL HITTING No. 1. In 1949, Hank Williams walked onto the Grand Ole Opry stage and became an instant sensation. “Lovesick Blues” had already broken through, but the Opry appearance made the scale of his arrival unmistakable. The audience called him back for six encores. At 25, Williams had reached the institution every country singer wanted to reach. Then the road underneath him began to give way. Williams had lived with severe back pain for years, and alcohol had already caused trouble before Nashville made him a star. By 1951 and 1952, pain, drinking and prescription drugs were becoming increasingly difficult to separate from his work. His marriage to Audrey collapsed, his band broke apart, and his appearances became less reliable. By June 1952, he had largely stopped working. The Grand Ole Opry had tolerated missed dates before, but in August it finally dismissed him from the cast. The problem was not record sales. Hank Williams was still making hits. “Jambalaya (On the Bayou)” went to No. 1 while his live career was shrinking around him. Country Music Hall of Fame historian Colin Escott described the contradiction plainly: as Williams’s bookings diminished, the records seemed to get bigger. After losing the Opry, Hank returned to the Louisiana Hayride in Shreveport. The stages were smaller now. Some bookings were in beer halls across East Texas. His drinking remained severe, complicated further by medication supplied by a questionable doctor. But when Williams entered a recording studio, the collapse outside it was not yet audible in the results. In September 1952, only about a month after the Opry dismissal, he recorded one of the songs that would define him forever. “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” The song came from a remark Williams made while driving with Billie Jean Jones, the woman he would soon marry. He recognized the phrase as a song idea, and she wrote down the words while he dictated them. There was almost no time left. On December 30, Williams left Montgomery for shows in West Virginia and Ohio. Somewhere during the overnight drive, in the back seat of his Cadillac, he died. He was pronounced dead in Oak Hill, West Virginia, early on January 1, 1953. He was 29. “Your Cheatin’ Heart” was released after his death and became another No. 1. By then, the Opry stage Hank Williams had lost was no longer the measure of what survived him. The songs recorded during his final collapse were only beginning their own run.

FERLIN HUSKY WAS STILL WORKING THE ROAD WHEN HIS HEART STARTED FAILING IN PUBLIC. HE COLLAPSED ONSTAGE, ENDED UP WITH A PACEMAKER — AND THEN KEPT SINGING FOR YEARS AFTER DOCTORS HAD TO REWIRE THE RHYTHM INSIDE HIS CHEST. By the 1960s, Ferlin Husky had already spent years as one of country music’s most recognizable entertainers. “Gone” and “Wings of a Dove” had made him a major star. He could sing straight country, work comedy through his Simon Crum character and move easily between records, television and live shows. His career depended on the road, and he stayed on it heavily. Then his body began interrupting the schedule. Husky suffered from recurring heart trouble and, during one performance, collapsed onstage. Doctors eventually diagnosed a cardiac problem serious enough that he needed a pacemaker. Over the years, he underwent multiple heart procedures as the condition continued to require treatment. For a touring singer, the implications were obvious. The stage was no longer just where Husky earned a living. It was also where there was a real chance his heart could fail in front of an audience. He kept going anyway. After receiving the pacemaker, Husky returned to performing and continued making appearances for years. Even as his chart run slowed, he remained a familiar figure on the country circuit and at the Grand Ole Opry. The heart problems never fully disappeared. He suffered additional complications later in life, including congestive heart failure, and eventually had to reduce his schedule. But the medical setbacks did not produce a clean retirement the first time they arrived. By then, Husky had already outlasted several different eras of country music. He had begun in the honky-tonk world of the early 1950s, crossed into the Nashville Sound years and remained visible long after the radio hits stopped coming as frequently. His final chapter did not hinge on another No. 1. It hinged on something more basic: whether the man whose career had been built around keeping time with a band could keep enough rhythm inside his own body to make it back to the microphone.

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TWELVE YEARS AFTER WALKING OUT OF SAN QUENTIN, THE FORMER INMATE HAD BECOME ONE OF THE BIGGEST COUNTRY STARS IN AMERICA. THEN CALIFORNIA’S GOVERNOR SIGNED THE PAPER THAT FINALLY REMOVED THE OLD CONVICTIONS HANGING OVER MERLE HAGGARD’S LIFE. Merle Haggard left San Quentin in 1960, but prison did not simply disappear when the gate closed behind him. He had been convicted in Kern County of second-degree burglary and escape without force after years of arrests, reform schools and failed attempts to straighten himself out. California’s official clemency record shows that Haggard served two years and nine months in prison, followed by more than two years on parole. He was discharged from his sentence in 1963. By then, his second life had already begun. Haggard worked labor jobs, played bass for Wynn Stewart and slowly built a recording career in Bakersfield. By the end of the 1960s, “Mama Tried,” “Sing Me Back Home,” “Workin’ Man Blues” and “Okie from Muskogee” had made the former prisoner one of country music’s dominant stars. Success, however, did not erase the conviction. In July 1971, California’s Adult Authority formally recommended a pardon on the grounds of rehabilitation. Because Haggard had more than one felony conviction, the matter also went before the California Supreme Court. The justices recommended clemency that October. On **March 1, 1972**, Governor Ronald Reagan granted the full pardon. That date comes directly from Reagan’s official report to the California legislature. For Haggard, the meaning went beyond public relations. He later spoke of the pardon as a genuine second chance—relief from having to carry the legal status of an ex-convict into parts of his adult life even after years of proving that the young man sent to San Quentin no longer existed in the same form. There was one more scene waiting. Ten years later, Reagan was president. In March 1982, Haggard performed for him at a private concert in California. Before singing, Merle joked that he hoped Reagan would be as pleased with the performance as he had been with the pardon. Then he added another line: he had come to “beg your pardon one more time.” Reagan laughed. By then, the prison number **A-45200** belonged to an old government file. The man attached to it was standing in front of the president with a guitar.

HANK WILLIAMS ONCE LEFT THE GRAND OLE OPRY STAGE TO SIX ENCORES. THREE YEARS LATER, THE OPRY FIRED HIM FOR MISSED SHOWS AND DRUNKENNESS — WHILE HIS RECORDS WERE STILL HITTING No. 1. In 1949, Hank Williams walked onto the Grand Ole Opry stage and became an instant sensation. “Lovesick Blues” had already broken through, but the Opry appearance made the scale of his arrival unmistakable. The audience called him back for six encores. At 25, Williams had reached the institution every country singer wanted to reach. Then the road underneath him began to give way. Williams had lived with severe back pain for years, and alcohol had already caused trouble before Nashville made him a star. By 1951 and 1952, pain, drinking and prescription drugs were becoming increasingly difficult to separate from his work. His marriage to Audrey collapsed, his band broke apart, and his appearances became less reliable. By June 1952, he had largely stopped working. The Grand Ole Opry had tolerated missed dates before, but in August it finally dismissed him from the cast. The problem was not record sales. Hank Williams was still making hits. “Jambalaya (On the Bayou)” went to No. 1 while his live career was shrinking around him. Country Music Hall of Fame historian Colin Escott described the contradiction plainly: as Williams’s bookings diminished, the records seemed to get bigger. After losing the Opry, Hank returned to the Louisiana Hayride in Shreveport. The stages were smaller now. Some bookings were in beer halls across East Texas. His drinking remained severe, complicated further by medication supplied by a questionable doctor. But when Williams entered a recording studio, the collapse outside it was not yet audible in the results. In September 1952, only about a month after the Opry dismissal, he recorded one of the songs that would define him forever. “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” The song came from a remark Williams made while driving with Billie Jean Jones, the woman he would soon marry. He recognized the phrase as a song idea, and she wrote down the words while he dictated them. There was almost no time left. On December 30, Williams left Montgomery for shows in West Virginia and Ohio. Somewhere during the overnight drive, in the back seat of his Cadillac, he died. He was pronounced dead in Oak Hill, West Virginia, early on January 1, 1953. He was 29. “Your Cheatin’ Heart” was released after his death and became another No. 1. By then, the Opry stage Hank Williams had lost was no longer the measure of what survived him. The songs recorded during his final collapse were only beginning their own run.

FERLIN HUSKY WAS STILL WORKING THE ROAD WHEN HIS HEART STARTED FAILING IN PUBLIC. HE COLLAPSED ONSTAGE, ENDED UP WITH A PACEMAKER — AND THEN KEPT SINGING FOR YEARS AFTER DOCTORS HAD TO REWIRE THE RHYTHM INSIDE HIS CHEST. By the 1960s, Ferlin Husky had already spent years as one of country music’s most recognizable entertainers. “Gone” and “Wings of a Dove” had made him a major star. He could sing straight country, work comedy through his Simon Crum character and move easily between records, television and live shows. His career depended on the road, and he stayed on it heavily. Then his body began interrupting the schedule. Husky suffered from recurring heart trouble and, during one performance, collapsed onstage. Doctors eventually diagnosed a cardiac problem serious enough that he needed a pacemaker. Over the years, he underwent multiple heart procedures as the condition continued to require treatment. For a touring singer, the implications were obvious. The stage was no longer just where Husky earned a living. It was also where there was a real chance his heart could fail in front of an audience. He kept going anyway. After receiving the pacemaker, Husky returned to performing and continued making appearances for years. Even as his chart run slowed, he remained a familiar figure on the country circuit and at the Grand Ole Opry. The heart problems never fully disappeared. He suffered additional complications later in life, including congestive heart failure, and eventually had to reduce his schedule. But the medical setbacks did not produce a clean retirement the first time they arrived. By then, Husky had already outlasted several different eras of country music. He had begun in the honky-tonk world of the early 1950s, crossed into the Nashville Sound years and remained visible long after the radio hits stopped coming as frequently. His final chapter did not hinge on another No. 1. It hinged on something more basic: whether the man whose career had been built around keeping time with a band could keep enough rhythm inside his own body to make it back to the microphone.

BOB DYLAN’S ELECTRIC TOUR WAS BEING BOOED NIGHT AFTER NIGHT. LEVON HELM WALKED AWAY AND ENDED UP WORKING ON AN OIL RIG IN THE GULF OF MEXICO. WHEN HE CAME BACK, THE MUSICIANS HE HAD LEFT WERE ABOUT TO BECOME THE BAND. Levon Helm had already spent years on the road before Bob Dylan called. The Arkansas-born drummer had come up with Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks, a hard-working group built on rockabilly, R&B and country roots. By 1965, Helm, Robbie Robertson, Rick Danko, Richard Manuel and Garth Hudson had left Hawkins and were trying to establish themselves on their own. Then Dylan went electric. After the controversy surrounding his move away from acoustic folk, Dylan hired the Hawks as his backing band. The opportunity was enormous, but so was the hostility. Night after night, parts of the audience booed the amplified music, directing their anger at Dylan and the musicians behind him. Helm had enough. Late in 1965, he left the tour and returned south. For a period he drifted through places including Florida and New Orleans before taking work connected to an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico — about as far from the international rock circuit as a drummer could get. The rest of the Hawks stayed with Dylan through the turbulent 1966 tour. Then Dylan himself disappeared from the road after his motorcycle accident and settled near Woodstock, New York. The Hawks followed, and without the pressure of nightly concerts they began playing and recording informally with him in a large pink house in West Saugerties. Those sessions became associated with The Basement Tapes. Eventually Helm was called back. He returned to the group as they were moving away from being somebody else’s backing band and toward something of their own. Soon they settled on the simplest possible name: The Band. In 1968, Music from Big Pink arrived, followed by The Band in 1969. Helm’s drumming and unmistakable Southern voice became central to songs such as “The Weight,” “Up on Cripple Creek” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” Their blend of country, blues, gospel, folk and early rock would become one of the foundations of what later generations called roots rock or Americana. What makes Helm’s exit from Dylan’s tour so revealing is that he did not leave music because nobody wanted him. He walked away while standing beside one of the most important artists in the world. By the time he returned, the same musicians were finally becoming the thing Helm had wanted them to be from the beginning: a band of their own.