The World Was Wide Enough Lyrics – Hamilton

Song Overview

Song Credits

• Producers: Bill Sherman, ?uestlove, Black Thought, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Alex Lacamoire
• Writers: Lin-Manuel Miranda, Khary Kimani Turner
• Release Date: 2015-09-25
• Album: Hamilton: An American Musical (Original Broadway Cast Recording)
• Genre: Broadway, Rap, Soundtrack
• Instruments: Violin, Viola, Cello, Harp, Banjo, Guitar, Synthesizer, Drums, Bass
• Conductor: Alex Lacamoire
• Vocals: Leslie Odom Jr., Lin-Manuel Miranda & Original Broadway Cast of Hamilton
• Recorded At: Avatar Studios
• Language: English
• Mixing Engineer: Tim Latham
• Mastering Engineer: Tom Coyne

Song Meaning and Annotations

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton reaches one of its most profound and haunting crescendos in “The World Was Wide Enough,” a number that doesn’t just portray a duel—it unpacks legacies, questions history, and blurs the line between narration and confession. In this climactic scene, Aaron Burr steps forward as both narrator and participant, his voice accompanied by an unsettling synth melody that underscores his unraveling. No longer the calm, calculated observer, Burr becomes emotionally entangled, his narrative tone descending into something much darker, more personal.

Layered into this theatrical moment is a real-life friendship that Miranda credits with shifting his perception of Burr. When Hamilton Woods, a descendant of the titular Founding Father, went kayaking with Antonio Burr—a relative of one of Burr’s cousins—it reframed Burr’s story. The revelation that William P. Van Ness, Burr’s friend and political ally during the Election of 1800, would later be appointed a federal judge under Madison, adds depth to Burr’s circle and the political world he inhabited.

The play toys cleverly with language and cultural references. Hamilton arrives at the duel with his "crew," both in the literal sense of sailors and the figurative sense of modern camaraderie. Miranda bridges centuries with this wordplay, erasing the temporal distance between contemporary audiences and 18th-century figures.

Judge Nathaniel Pendleton, Hamilton’s second, and Dr. David Hosack, a trusted physician to both Hamilton and Burr, anchor the scene historically. Pendleton resigned from a judgeship to return to private practice; Hosack, while not physically present during the duel, was nearby—just far enough away to preserve plausible deniability.

As the tension builds, the company returns to the familiar structure of “Ten Duel Commandments,” counting down once more. By the time we reach the final paces, Hamilton appears to acknowledge something Burr never admitted: he had always been one step ahead. The musical callback to “recruits” syncs with Burr’s lyrics, a subtle mirroring that underscores their fatal symmetry.

Throughout the musical’s three duels, a shot is always fired, and in this final encounter, the audience knows it’s coming. Pendleton and Van Ness marked out the ground; Hamilton chose the northern position, sunlight in his face. Burr, shaded and clear-eyed, had the tactical advantage.

The lyric “Looking, to the world, like a man on a mission” turns Hamilton into a symbol—one seen not just by the audience, but by history itself. A skilled artilleryman in his youth, Hamilton’s final stance reflects the discipline and intentionality of a soldier, even if he chooses not to fire.

The reappearance of familiar lines, like Hosack being close “enough to hear,” now shaded with dread, illustrates Miranda’s gift for recontextualizing lyrics. Burr’s fear hints that this time, it’s him who might not make it.

Philip’s earlier duel, just four miles from Weehawken, looms heavily over the scene. Hamilton uses the same pistols—Church’s pair with hair triggers—a detail that has invited speculation about his intentions. Yet Miranda never lets us land on a definitive answer. History, after all, is slippery. Even Burr, narrating his own story, becomes unreliable.

The play’s ambiguity plays a powerful role here. Burr breaks the fourth wall, not to plead innocence, but to reason with us—modern audiences and future historians alike. He justifies his decision through Hamilton’s glasses, through the logic of self-defense, through the impossibility of reclaiming a fair legacy.

Dueling, glossed over in many American curricula, carries complicated implications. Burr’s pain over Theodosia, his daughter, echoes in his trembling voice. A deleted reprise of “Dear Theodosia” once made this explicit. Ultimately, he faces the duel not just with anger, but with a devastating sense of consequence.

Miranda has spoken of life as a “ticking clock,” a metaphor embodied in Hamilton’s rapid-fire writing and the ever-present beat of the duel countdown. In the production, an ensemble member physically represents the bullet, inching toward Hamilton as the rest of the cast attempts in vain to stop her. She is death personified, a ghost threaded through the story, visible only to us.

The choreography shifts as the Bullet reprises her role from earlier numbers like “Stay Alive.” Here, she takes on new weight, a symbol of fate itself. Hamilton’s soliloquy—originally more certain, more declarative—was revised to reflect vulnerability, history's mutability. “I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory” becomes less about confidence and more about surrender.

Hamilton’s hesitation defies his usual character. In “Wait For It,” Burr notes that Hamilton acts without restraint—yet here, he chooses restraint, and it costs him everything. The show briefly suspends its music, allowing silence to fill the space where time seems to reverse.

As death nears, Hamilton invokes memories—his mother, Washington, Eliza, and Philip. His crackling voice brings depth to this spectral reunion, with Laurens appearing just as the bullet arrives. Hamilton’s promise in “Helpless” to remember his mother’s face returns in a poignant moment of closure.

And as he sees Washington, his mentor, standing with him in the afterlife, the thematic resonance of “History Has Its Eyes On You” becomes achingly clear. He was the man who wrote like he was running out of time, and in his final act, he throws away his shot—literally and metaphorically.

Miranda doesn’t offer neat answers. He leaves us in the haze of gunpowder and memory, where history becomes a living, breathing story, told and retold with each generation. The symphony of America, as Horace Kallen once said, isn’t about assimilation—it’s about harmony. Hamilton knew he was only part of the overture.

In Hamilton’s final duel scene, as the soundscape stills and the world narrows to a single breath, Alexander Hamilton begins to understand how to say goodbye. In “One Last Time,” we saw him helping George Washington model a graceful exit from power. Now, with death at his door, that lesson becomes deeply personal.

As Hamilton utters “Eliza,” the stage’s rotating floor shifts to bring her into view, a physical manifestation of her presence in his final thoughts. She walks directly through the imaginary trajectory of the bullet, crossing toward the light, toward memory. The moment is intimate and surreal—time fractures, and Hamilton stands still in it.

The music, echoing the relentless beat of “My Shot,” stutters like a broken record, catching on itself with growing urgency. And then, suddenly, he breaks from his ambition-driven motif to call her name again—“Eliza”—but this time, he sings it with the melodic shape from “The Schuyler Sisters.” It’s not just a name anymore; it’s a full-body memory, a grounding force. Her name slices through his panic and quiets the chaos. In that breath, he finds peace.

It’s a poignant echo of his real farewell letter to Eliza in Best of Wives and Best of Women, where he writes of hoping to see her again in a better world. Though he can't “stay alive,” as their son once longed to do, Eliza becomes the anchor of his final acceptance. In the end, the love she showed him becomes the thing that steadies him.

This moment also marks only the second time Hamilton, the man who lives “non-stop,” tells someone to slow down—the first being his son, Philip, before his own fatal duel. The contrast is heavy. He holds himself to impossible standards but wants gentler fates for those he loves.

Historically, whether Hamilton truly aimed high is contested—duels weren’t exactly spectator sports. Witnesses couldn't confirm intentions. Some accounts suggest he may have raised his pistol deliberately, perhaps even sighting down it. Burr, sensing the gravity, cries out “Wait!”—a desperate, irreversible plea that seems to hang in the air. It's the final time we hear him say it.

As Lin-Manuel Miranda put it, Burr and Hamilton are so entwined that they reflect each other—twin souls circling the same star. The moment repeats: Burr shouts “Wait!” again, as if wishing he could rewind time. He sings the next verse with stunned detachment, his usual lyrical precision lost in numb disbelief. He doesn’t even rhyme.

The bullet’s path, as described later, is brutal: fracturing a rib, tearing through the liver and spine, bringing Hamilton’s life to a violent close. Miranda cleverly uses a low, percussive pulse to represent Hamilton’s heartbeat—it fades with him, ending on the line “we’re both at his side when he died.”

Eyewitnesses said Burr seemed to approach Hamilton afterward with remorse in his step—until others urged him to flee. Even then, Burr would sometimes refer to his fallen rival, with painful formality, as “my friend Hamilton, whom I shot.”

On the boat ride back, Hamilton reportedly looked at the pistol case and advised his doctor to care for it. Calm, resigned, he closed his eyes—paralyzed and fading fast. The stoicism he showed in life never left him.

Years later, Leslie Odom Jr. spoke about how visiting the Weehawken dueling site deepened his performance. The line “Aaron Burr, Sir” gains tragic weight in this final context. Sometimes, on stage, Burr is a cold executioner; other nights, he’s broken. The delivery changes, and so does the story.

Musically, the underscore returns to the motif from “Aaron Burr, Sir,” reminding us where it all began. The story arcs from greeting to farewell, from rivalry to reckoning. In “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story,” Burr resumes his role as narrator, now shadowed by everything he's lost.

The city grieved Hamilton’s death with a depth reserved only for great men. Even Burr’s allies, like Charles Biddle, admitted the mourning rivaled that of George Washington. A cut song about Washington’s death would have paralleled this moment—history repeating itself in grief.

Burr, once again alone, becomes the “only living boy in New York,” haunted not just by what he did, but by what it meant. When the bell tolls on the word “both,” signaling Hamilton’s passing, it resonates like church bells—solemn, undeniable.

After the duel, Burr’s life spirals: failed plots, exile, disgrace. He tries to found a new empire and ends up branded a traitor. Though acquitted, he’s exiled in spirit, wandering Europe under false names. He survives—but at what cost?

Hamilton, always reaching for the heavens, dies aiming at the sky. It’s a gesture that matches the life he lived: lofty, impassioned, impossible. Burr, by contrast, lives on for 32 more years—long enough to watch his name curdle in the eyes of the nation.

In the show’s structure, Burr becomes part narrator, part antagonist, and ultimately part tragedy. The parallels to Les Misérables’ Javert or Jesus Christ Superstar’s Judas are intentional—both narrate their downfall as they cause another’s. Burr, too, realizes that in destroying Hamilton, he undoes himself.

“Wait For It” returns as a ghostly motif—its chords still echo, as if whispering, you should’ve waited. But Burr didn’t. And now, he lives only in the shadow of the man he couldn't wait to outlast.

It all comes to a head in “The World Was Wide Enough” — a final duel not just between men, but between philosophies, regrets, and the weight of history. In this climactic moment from Hamilton, Aaron Burr’s bullet rewrites both their destinies, but it’s Hamilton’s voice we hear as time slows to a crawl and mortality becomes poetry.

"I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory..."

Hamilton’s inner monologue unfolds as time distorts. The music itself vanishes, replaced by spoken reflection — not a rap, not a verse, just raw thought. This musical silence becomes deafening, underscoring the stillness before death. Here, Hamilton doesn't throw away his shot — he elevates it, aiming skyward, choosing legacy over survival.

“Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”

This line lands like a dagger and a sermon all at once. Lin-Manuel Miranda welds historical fact and lyrical myth with the ease of a seasoned blacksmith. Hamilton envisions his legacy not in titles or power, but in the stories that might grow from his sacrifice.

Meanwhile, Burr — usually calculated and reserved — acts out of fear. The duel, foreshadowed by earlier numbers like “Ten Duel Commandments” and “Your Obedient Servant”, becomes a moment of irreversible change. Burr expects victory. What he receives is lifelong guilt.

“Now I’m the villain in your history…”

There’s no revenge here, only ruin. Burr’s final words are a reckoning. We see the cost of ambition, of decisions made in rage. The line “The world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me” is not just a mournful realization — it’s a missed opportunity sealed in blood.

Through it all, the ensemble hums their eerie refrain, death’s chorus, their “Aaaahs” a spectral echo of Hamilton’s fading heartbeat. And in the final seconds, we don’t get a resolution. We get silence — and Eliza’s name, whispered like a prayer across time.

Similar Songs

1. “Your Obedient Servant” – Lin-Manuel Miranda & Leslie Odom Jr.
   This song sets the stage for the duel, capturing the passive-aggressive correspondence between Hamilton and Burr. It mirrors the tension and formal structure of the 18th century while highlighting their growing resentment. It's witty, sharp, and deeply foreboding.
2. “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story” – Original Broadway Cast
   This number is the reflective coda to Hamilton’s life, echoing the themes of legacy introduced in “The World Was Wide Enough.” It asks the same questions, but with Eliza at the helm, turning personal grief into historical restoration.
3. “Wait For It” – Leslie Odom Jr.
   Burr’s philosophical counterpoint to Hamilton’s ambition. Where “The World Was Wide Enough” shows Burr’s tragic fall, “Wait For It” is his manifesto — controlled, strategic, almost romantic in its restraint. Together, they bracket the rise and fall of a conflicted man.

Questions and Answers

Why does Hamilton aim at the sky?

He chooses not to kill Burr, instead preserving his principles — even if it means sacrificing his life. It's a final act of moral defiance and symbolic resignation.

Why is the song titled “The World Was Wide Enough”?

It’s based on a real quote attributed to Burr. The line mourns the idea that there was space in the world for both men to coexist, but pride and miscommunication made coexistence impossible.

How does the song connect to the rest of the musical?

It ties together major themes: legacy, mortality, ambition, and friendship-turned-rivalry. It also references past songs, reinforcing emotional arcs and consequences.

What role does silence play in the song?

The absence of music during Hamilton’s monologue creates a meditative stillness that emphasizes his spiritual and emotional reckoning before death.

Does the song portray Burr as evil?

No — it humanizes him. Burr is conflicted, frightened, and impulsive. The tragedy lies in his self-awareness after the fact, as he realizes too late what he’s done.

Awards and Chart Positions

“The World Was Wide Enough” was certified Gold by the RIAA in June 2023. Though never a standalone charting single, the Hamilton cast album reached No. 1 on the Billboard Top Broadway Albums and earned the Pulitzer Prize for Drama and 11 Tony Awards, with this track hailed as one of its emotional apexes.

Fan and Media Reactions

“Hamilton’s monologue here hits harder than any gunshot. I cry every time.” — @FoundingPhantom

“The silence before the shot is one of the greatest theatrical decisions in modern musicals.” — @StageLeftSoul

“This is not just a song, it’s a historical reckoning in verse.” — @RapHistoryNerd

“Aaron Burr’s regret is so raw it rewrites the villain trope. He’s a tragic hero now.” — @TheodosiaTea

“When he says ‘My love, take your time’ to Eliza, I just melt. Every. Single. Time.” — @HamiltunesForever