The narrator calls out to Michael, Gabriel, and every angel within earshot, asking them to row a boat ashore. The language is ancient and spare, built from a handful of images: a river to cross, a river of milk and honey, a trumpet sounding on the other side. Every line points the same direction, toward deliverance. The narrator never begs. The tone is certainty dressed in patience, someone who knows the crossing is coming and speaks as though summoning it into being.

You hear these words and something in your chest loosens. If you carry any weight at all, the promise of an "other side" registers before your mind can argue with it. The message hits hardest for anyone who has spent time enduring rather than living, anyone familiar with the feeling that relief exists but hasn't arrived yet. If you've never needed deliverance, the whole thing floats past like a postcard from someone else's faith. For everyone else, it sits in the body like a held breath finally released.