As the darkness entered her eyes;
they widened instinctively,
as a barren landscape in the migrant rain
or a guilty heart
reading a book about grace
She'd lost the spirit;
oh it was still there,
like the soil after a long drought;
but it wasn't good for plantin' yet
It had been a good life,
up to now;
now she straddled her youth
and what remained of it;
at least what remained of her pretty face
She was still pretty
They told her everyday
It seemed they wanted to move too fast
As if she was desperate
Desperate for a man
But she wasn’t
She was no tombstone waiting for a chisel
He was gonna’ have to his job
She was gonna’ make him do it
Even if she only had a week to live
He had to put in six days to get the seventh
And she’d wait for him;
she'd be resting on the porch,
just like God rested;
waiting to see if anyone deserved all of that