The message was sent
The task was done
Prayers offered up in the night
Face the light of the burning sun

My brother was dead
By his own hand
A gun in the glove box
'Cause he carried money
For my old man

They say he gambled
Friday's payroll
Found him in his car
In a cornfield
Twenty-one years old, oh, oh

He wanted to own
His own clothing store
Dressed like Sam Cooke
With the catholic girls
In his Fair lane Ford

Doing his job
Doing his best
Selling burnt orange
And avocado green kitchens
All across the Midwest

The favored one
Me and my brothers all knew
My mother loved him more
Than she knew
What to do

The message was sent
The truth to tell
The officer tried to catch her
As she wept and fell

My father screamed, "no"
And beat on the wall
Shook the foundations of the house
Shook the life out of us all

The priest came by
He was undeterred
There to explain the unexplainable
With god's word

The message was sent
A family gone
The death of a golden child
And nothing left to carry on

The message was sent
The task was done
Prayers offered up in the night
Faced the light of the burning sun

Copyright: Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
Writer(s): JOhn Hiatt