We’re called to be Leaders of Change,
In the midst of failure that laughs at our claim
In intangible rain that they say are like chains,
Like desert-drenched battlefield’s grave.

But I don’t know if the battlefield’s where we play,
Maybe it’s just the place where we lay:
Half-dead, believing that everything is ok,
Acting like the sky was created to be grey.

Our mentors have reached the frame where they stray,
A motion-picture capturing the fall like it’s a game.
A lifetime of self-sacrifice unraveled…defaced,
Thrown down, spit on, mocked, and disgraced.

Our Savior, we call ourselves by His Name:
Like we’re worthy to be measured by His fame,
Like we’re willing to suffer like Him for change;
So why do we call ourselves like Him today?

Maybe we need a different kind of rain:
Like the tangible, compassionate, “real” strain
Of living water that refreshes our battlefield’s slain
And evidences the downpour of Christ’s true reign.

But will we give up ourselves for the change
And spill our blood? For one’s freedom is another’s grave.
Yet it is not death to which we should raise our fists in blame,
As it is our inability to give Life that brings death its name.

So what then is there at all in heart to say?
Except that we coach when we do not know how to play.
But when our words are forgotten, we’ve spoken in vain…
So leave Love as an imprint; for what matters remains…