Jamal Robert and Jelly Roll Bring Music and Tears to Texas: A Song for Parents Who Lost Their Children

Texas hasn’t dried its tears yet. And maybe it never will.

After the devastating July 4th flood at Camp Mystic, where 27 young girls were swept away and found lifeless beneath the waters, Texas has been left in a silence heavier than any storm.

When Jamal Robert and Jelly Roll heard the news, they didn’t come with cameras or press releases. They came with something quieter, something rawer—their voices, their guitars, and hearts ready to break alongside grieving families.

“I’m Not Here to Fix It—I’m Here to Cry With You”

On a muddy field turned makeshift shelter, Jamal Robert stood before parents clutching photos of the children they will never hold again. His voice shook as he spoke:

“I’m not here to tell you it’ll be okay. Because losing a child is not something you fix. I came to cry with you. I came to sit in this pain with you.”

Jelly Roll stood beside him, eyes wet, silent but present. Then, without fanfare, they began to play—guitars trembling in their hands, voices cracking as they sang “Go Rest High On That Mountain.”

It wasn’t a performance. It was a prayer.

A Song That Became a Farewell

The lyrics cut deeper than ever that night:

“Go rest high on that mountain,
Son, your work on earth is done…”

Mothers clutched each other. Fathers silently collapsed into chairs, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Some whispered their child’s name into the night air, hoping maybe it would carry somewhere beyond the pain.

Jamal’s voice broke mid-song. Jelly Roll wiped away tears but kept his hands steady on the strings. They weren’t just singing—they were mourning with everyone in the crowd. They were standing in the gap where words failed.

When the last chord faded, Jelly Roll knelt beside a young mother who had lost her daughter.

“I have a child, too,” he whispered, his voice raw.
“I can’t imagine waking up without her. But I promise you—tonight, I’ll stay right here with you. You won’t go through this alone.”

Jamal Robert didn’t say much after. He simply set his guitar down and held a little boy who had just lost his sister, letting him cry until there were no more tears left.

That night in Texas, it wasn’t about stages or headlines. It was about standing in the ruins of grief and offering the only thing left: presence.

Jamal Robert and Jelly Roll didn’t come to sing for applause. They came to bear witness. They came to cry. They came to remind these families—through music and silence—that even in the darkest nights, someone will sit beside you, and no one will let you face this kind of heartbreak alone.

Because some wounds don’t heal.
But in moments like this, you don’t have to face them alone.