I remember the first time, too, I realized I thought girls were pretty.
When I left, I left my community, my tribe.
We think we know a person.
Slowly, release began to turn into resentment.
So go, go, And hold up the mothers whose babies bleed from bullet holes, And feel all the hunger, the bellies and the bones, Shout for the prisoner, cry for justice loud and long, And march with the victims as Jesus marches on.
You were honest and bold, musically soft and lyrically fierce.
But there was something different from the go: This Nichole Nordeman sounded transformed.
And this, this was a good title.