There’s not a one of us that Life hasn’t overspent
its aches and pains never relent
to the point where all is overdrawn
and it seems all goodness all hope is gone
indeed our own identification is rooted in what we’ve lost
unable to cope with these circumstances unable to cover the cost
left dry with less than nothing alone in the cold
it’s so familiar it is so old
it needs to be better it needs to be more
it wants to stand up and walk even though weak and sore
a whisper uttered in the stillness stirs something unknown
or perhaps just forgotten but all the same currently unsown
what is this? who is this? who treads the roads mile marked with grief?
who makes the difference for those foreign to relief?
who restores the broken with renewed confidence?
who defies logic and refutes evidence?
the clouded perspective held by me and you
who is this that makes everything new?