when we die i bet they'll haul a box into a pile of dirt nothing in it but a sack of bones and stuffy tie and shirt as loved ones wish that we'd get up and moan "this isn't fair!" but you and me won't be there… d**h, it doesn't scare me thinking that you're somewhere on your way i can't go on pretending i might never see the day it's not hard for me to picture but makes me feel out of place i hope i'm not afraid when i see you face to face to some you're like a prison when they've yet to taste freedom and maybe you feel bitter because Jesus broke your kingdom once you felt so powerful and power made you happy but now you're like a ferry boat now you're like a taxi when i die whatever you might say, don't say i'm gone gone is not the word for someone who finally found his way back home gone is not the word for someone who finally found his way back home