Can't Tell It All

Hulvey and KB trade verses over a beat that feels like a victory lap, but the song's real engine is testimony that keeps outrunning the clock. The opening verse drops into a fighting image — stepping into the ring, kneeling to strap on gloves, already covered in blood — before pivoting to the rope God threw a drowning man. From there the lyrics pile up specific, unpolished evidence: a man's back healed, a woman freed of demons, a brother tossing his vape into a lake, a heart changed from the inside. The hook keeps admitting the list is incomplete — "can't tell it all" — which is the point. KB's verse leans into the same confidence, walking through a lion's den unshaken, name-checking Nineveh and Romans, insisting the Word is awake and curses break. The closing stretch turns tender: a hand on the Bible, a tattoo near the heart, a seat kept at the table for a friend closer than blood. It's a song about what can't be fully said, told anyway.