Some say I’ll see the edge of nowhere When I get there; Trees will grow their roots up, Streams will run backwards, The grass will be bright blue- and my unborn son, born to the grave.
My wife has nightmares about crying children and screaming and waves and I hush, hush, there my dear wife of Halifax and tell her the end is nowhere in sight
In the dead of night I stand on the boat deck and wonder what’s really out there in the grand, decent world Because Lord, if there’s no plan for me no place, no job, no family then I’ll just go
Just please, Lord- let my baby live and make it home