When the final sand falls through the glass,
And the land beyond yonder lies waiting,
They’ll count up your money, your exhibitions of class,
And the times you’ve left someone hating.
They’ll measure your life inside of their heads,
With an ounce of forgiveness or two,
Then leave you with the many dead
And compare some of them against you.
And there you will lay
Until no one recalls
How you met every day
And recovered from falls.
So it stands to good reason
That because time always forgets
We must value our own season
Before we descend to the pits.