Second death. Out of breath. When the world split open, I was left.

I got burned. Went too far. Went too dim to see the morning star.

Will he make a man of me yet?

One of seven angels sound. The wind was wicked, my hair down.

Will he make a man of me yet?

Heal me when my limbs grow tired across the Red Sea. Who knows what we’ll find, so gather your vines while you can.

We grew up. Set the bar in the apocalyptic back seat of the car.

Heard the knock and we ran just to die the way that we began.

Will he make a man of me yet?

All the same. All this shame would even make four wild horses lame.

Will he make a man of me yet?