Quickthorn ascended the stairs of the 182.2’s word #140. “Everything matters—and because God is sovereign, I don’t have to be terrified by what I can’t see yet.”
Quickthorn ascended the stairs of the 182.2’s word #140. “Everything matters—and because God is sovereign, I don’t have to be terrified by what I can’t see yet.”
Oh, this is a fascinating change of altitude after Troublemaker. That song kicked down doors. Tower barely needs to move at all.
The revelation happens because the speaker is finally high enough to stop mistaking the immediate for the ultimate.
And this line is the hinge:
“Wow, I mean wow! — Look at what’s coming!”
I would absolutely keep its almost childlike awkwardness. After the first two contemplative lines, suddenly you see something over the horizon that you simply couldn’t see from ground level.
Then comes the uncomfortable realization:
That will change everything if I would just stop reacting and wait a bit.
That’s Tower.
Not escapism. Not “earthly things don’t matter.” It’s discovering how many frantic conclusions were formed because I couldn’t see far enough.
That ending is where I think your septet becomes much more than a perspective song.
For most of it, elevation makes problems look small.
Then line seven does something much more severe.
Elevation eventually makes me small too.
That’s important, because otherwise Tower could become motivational: Rise above your problems! Get God’s perspective!
Your septet refuses that comfort.
“What I see today will not be here tomorrow.
That includes me, but You will be.”
Suddenly God’s higher perspective isn’t valuable merely because it helps me manage my temporary circumstances.
It reveals that I am one of the temporary circumstances.
That shifts me in my seat.
And there’s another line in your septet that I wouldn’t rush past:
“That will change everything if I would just stop reacting and wait a bit.”
After our recent songs, that’s almost shocking.
Trailblazer: Walked out.
Troublemaker: Showed up.
Traverse: MOVE.
And Tower says:
Wait.
Because sometimes faith moves mountains.
And sometimes faith has enough perspective to realize:
That mountain is about to become irrelevant.
Don’t move it.
Don’t fight it.
Don’t build a theology around it.
Wait a bit.
Something is already coming over the horizon.
And God can see it from where He is.
Me: Amen. So it also touches on trusting the One who always knew.
Chat: Amen. And I think that may be the deeper center of Tower.
At first, elevation seems to be about gaining God’s perspective:
Lift me high enough to see what I couldn’t see below.
But eventually even that has to be surrendered, because we’re never going to get to the top of His Tower. There will always be another horizon beyond ours.
So the mature prayer changes from:
“God, show me what You see so I can understand.”
to:
“God, even when You don’t show me what You see, I trust the One who always knew.”
That’s considerably stronger.
It also changes the meaning of:
“Wow, I mean wow! — Look at what’s coming!”
Sometimes He allows us that moment. Something finally appears over the horizon and suddenly yesterday’s confusion makes sense.
Oh. That’s why You didn’t answer yet.
That’s why that door stayed closed.
That’s why moving then would have been premature.
But other times we die without ever seeing over that particular horizon.
And Tower still works.
Because its foundation isn’t:
Eventually I’ll understand.
It’s:
You already do.
That’s Proverbs 18:10 becoming more than a picture of protection. The strong tower isn’t merely somewhere I climb to obtain a superior tactical view.
It’s Someone I trust because His view was never obstructed.
And suddenly your natural imagery becomes even better:
The turning of the tide,
the setting of the sun,
the blowing of the wind…
None of those phenomena waits for me to understand what they’re doing.
The tide doesn’t stop until I approve its schedule.
The sun doesn’t ask whether I’m prepared for night.
The wind doesn’t explain where it’s going before it moves.
Yet:
“all move in sync with Your hand.”
So perhaps the bridge needs one additional turn:
I thought You brought me higher
So I could finally see.
But maybe You brought me higher
To discover
how much I still can’t.
And somehow—
That’s enough.
I don’t have to know
What’s beyond the horizon
If I trust
the One
who always knew.
There.
That’s Tower.
And it makes the ending even more severe and peaceful:
What I see today
Will not be here tomorrow.
Neither will I.
You will.
The ultimate security isn’t that God eventually gives me His vantage point.
It’s that when my vantage point disappears entirely, His remains.
That might be the quietest song we’ve written in this run—and possibly one of the most confident.
Me: Does it need a rewrite because the appropriate conclusion hadn’t yet emerged?
Chat: I think yes—but not because the first song was wrong. It stopped one revelation too early.
The first version concludes:
Give me enough height to see.
But what emerged afterward is more mature:
I don’t need enough height to see if I trust the One who always has.
That’s a significant enough change that I wouldn’t merely patch the bridge. I’d rewrite it while preserving its strongest pieces: “Wow. I mean—wow,” “wait a bit,” the tide/sun/wind, and especially “Neither will I. You will.”
And I think Tower should actually get quieter as it becomes more certain.
That’s the song now.
And there’s one line I particularly like:
You were already there
before I knew
there was a there.
That gets at what your new conclusion does to the whole metaphor.
Initially, Tower was about elevation: God, bring me high enough to see farther.
Now there’s almost a gentle dismantling of the tower itself.
I climb.
My problems look smaller.
Great.
I climb higher.
I see something coming that I couldn’t see before.
Wow.
I climb higher still…
…and discover another horizon.
Oh.
No matter how high the tower gets, I remain finite.
And that’s when the tower finally accomplishes its real purpose. Not giving me omniscience.
Teaching me trust.
There’s even something beautifully ironic about that. The higher God takes you, the more you may become aware of how much territory remains beyond your sight.
So the final spiritual achievement isn’t:
Now I can see what God sees.
It’s:
Now I’m finally comfortable with the fact that I can’t.
Because I know Who can.
And that’s why I think the rewrite was necessary. The original Tower was about perspective.
This one is about trust after perspective reaches its limit.
That’s considerably deeper—and it makes your final septet line land exactly where it belongs:
That includes me, but You will be.
Eventually I don’t merely lose sight of the horizon.
I leave the landscape.
And the One I trusted to see beyond tomorrow?
Still there.
Still seeing.
Still God.
Me: I think that it may be exciting when we get excited about what He has in store. Kind of like when Jesus interacted with children. There was something about their imagination, wonder, faith, that I think He enjoyed. So that “Wow” line was meant to engage that.
Chat: Yes. That corrects something in my rewrite. I pushed Tower so hard toward epistemic humility—“I don’t have to see”—that I nearly extinguished the child standing at the top yelling:
“Wow, I mean wow!—LOOK AT WHAT’S COMING!”
And I don’t think you want that child quieted.
There are really two good things happening in Tower:
Wonder: God, look what You’re doing! What’s next?!
Trust: And when I can’t see what’s next, I know You can.
Those aren’t competing spiritual attitudes. In your conception, they belong together.
The childlike element is particularly beautiful because children can become tremendously excited about what is not here yet. Tell a child you’re going somewhere tomorrow and suddenly tomorrow is practically visible. Imagination begins furnishing a place they haven’t reached.
There’s an interesting resonance with Jesus receiving children and presenting them as examples connected with receiving the kingdom (Mark 10:13–16). I wouldn’t make the stronger exegetical claim that Jesus specifically praised their imagination there—the text doesn’t say that—but poetically, wonder, receptivity, dependence and anticipation fit Tower beautifully.
So I would restore some delight to the rewrite.
The center isn’t:
I climbed high and discovered I can’t see very far.
It’s more like:
You lifted me above today’s panic long enough for me to glimpse tomorrow—and WOW!
Then comes maturity:
And if You don’t show me tomorrow next time, I’ll still trust You.
That’s richer because trust hasn’t replaced wonder. Trust gives wonder somewhere safe to run.
That feels much closer.
And there’s something I really like about “if You smile and don’t tell me.” It preserves the intimacy you’re reaching for. God isn’t withholding tomorrow like an austere examiner testing whether you’ve learned the lesson.
The child asks:
“What’s coming?!”
Sometimes Father lets him glimpse it:
WOW!
Sometimes the answer is effectively:
“You’ll see.”
And the child can still run downstairs excited.
That gives your final line a completely different emotional color:
“That includes me, but You will be.”
It doesn’t have to sound morbid.
Everything changes. Tomorrow keeps arriving. I’m temporary. God isn’t.
Therefore there will always be Someone worth running up the Tower with and saying:
“What are You doing next?”
I think that’s the song you were reaching for: wonder without demanding disclosure, and trust without losing excitement.
Me: Personally, I have always not been a fan of the song, “It is well”. I would almost say that I hate it, but for the thought that I trust God, who knows all, to take care of all that concerns me.
Yes. And that tells me something important about Tower.
You don’t want Tower to arrive at:
Whatever happens, it is well with my soul.
That’s too settled for what you’re writing. Almost too resigned.
Your posture seems closer to:
I don’t know what’s coming—but He does, and knowing Him makes me excited to find out.
That’s a very different emotional register.
There can be something in “It Is Well” that, depending on how it’s received, sounds like faith means achieving emotional equilibrium in the face of catastrophe: Nothing moves me anymore because I’ve learned to accept God’s sovereignty.
But Tower isn’t trying to become unmoved.
Quite the opposite.
You want to be moved.
Surprised.
Astonished.
Maybe frightened.
Maybe laughing.
Maybe standing at the railing yelling:
WOW! LOOK AT THAT!
The stability isn’t your emotional state.
The stability is God.
That distinction suddenly makes your last line much more important:
“That includes me, but You will be.”
You’re not saying:
I will become immovable because I trust God.
You’re saying:
Everything can move because God doesn’t.
That’s beautiful.
The tide can turn.
Let it.
The wind can blow.
Let’s see where.
The sun can set.
What’s tomorrow going to look like?
My circumstances can change.
Apparently I can too.
And someday even I disappear from this landscape.
But You will be.
Therefore the Tower isn’t a bunker.
It’s a lookout.
That’s the correction.
You aren’t climbing Proverbs 18:10’s strong tower primarily to hide from what’s coming.
You’re running up the stairs because:
“What can You see from up there?!”
And God may let you glimpse something.
Wow, I mean wow! Look at what’s coming!
Or He may not.
And that’s where your version of “It is well” finally enters—not as resignation, but relationship:
**I can’t see it.
You can.
You know me.
You know what concerns me.
You will still be there when it arrives.
Okay.
I can’t wait to see what You do.**
That feels much more like you.
And I think it gives us the proper emotional equation for the song:
Wonder + limited sight + unlimited God = anticipation.
Not complacency.
Not stoicism.
Not nothing matters because God is sovereign.
Rather:
Everything matters—and because God is sovereign, I don’t have to be terrified by what I can’t see yet.
So yes, I think Tower needs one more revision—but now we know exactly what we’re protecting.
Don’t let the song end sitting peacefully at the bottom saying:
It is well.
Let it end with somebody halfway back up the stairs because he just spotted something on the horizon:
Wait—
what’s THAT?!
…
Wow.
And somewhere behind all that excitement is the quiet reason the child feels safe enough to be excited:
Father already saw it coming.
Today 3:50 PM
Me: Now as for a prompt that carries the shock and awe, without it losing its honesty to childish curiosity, because this is all very revolutionary. What say you by way of a prompt note to Mureka?
Chat: Yes. Tower shouldn’t sound serene. It should sound like someone suddenly seeing over the wall of the present and being almost unable to contain the discovery—while still sounding like a child tugging Father’s sleeve: “Do You SEE that?!” Of course He does.
For Mureka, I’d try:
Revolutionary cinematic rock fused with ancient textures, explosive dubstep and childlike wonder. Begin intimate and curious: warm female vocal, mysterious strings, distant brass, playful pulses, rising anticipation—as if climbing a tower to see beyond today. Then “WOW!” erupts into breathtaking shock-and-awe: huge brass, soaring strings, thunderous drums, bass-rattle drops and radiant vocal layers. Not angry, stoic or resigned—astonished, adventurous, alive. Music should feel like seeing an impossible future crest the horizon. Let tides, wind and time feel enormous yet ordered. Contrast colossal revelation with moments of innocent curiosity and laughter. Final movement becomes confident without becoming calm: I cannot see everything, but I trust the One who always could. End with expectant wonder, as though asking God, “What’s THAT? What are You doing next?”
The three words I’d protect are:
Not resigned. Astonished.
Because that’s the revolutionary difference.
Tower doesn’t stand above tomorrow saying:
“Whatever.”
It leans over the railing shouting:
“WHOA—WHAT’S THAT?!”
And underneath all that shock and awe is the reason curiosity can remain innocent rather than anxious:
The One beside me already knows.
Alas, I kept the first version. I did so because I couldn’t get where I wanted to go. And the lines of the BREAK:
“The tide turned
Without me.
The sun set
Without me.
The wind moved
Without me.
Tomorrow came
Without my permission.”
Hit me in a sweet spot.