I write from the bowels of Wish I Could Sleep
Which borders the swamp of Too Tall
Which was named for the bed that was somehow too short
Where the Sleeper couldn't stretch out at all.

I call, at this very late hour, to say
That tomorrow I'd better not forget
The car's in the shop, the WiFi's down,
And though my new book wasn't great

I can write without car and internet, too
I am capable of this
But if anyone from Luxury calls
Just tell them to talk to the fist!

This is the end of 'tomorrow's
And 'maybe's and 'sorta's and 'shrugs'
This is the end of beginnings
That never amount to His love

This is the end of the water
That's lukewarm, not cold and not hot
This is the end of just saying
That we'd rather just sit here and rot.

This is the end of your sorrows
That are given more attention and care
Than the unmourned deaths of the millions
Who die without knowing He's there.

This is the end of the judgement
We all so readily give
To those who just needed a Savior
And who now don't see why they should live.

This is the end of the 'nervous'
Where you don't speak 'cause you're afraid
This is the start of your courage
Where you stand up 'cause you're not ashamed.