Wounds
Some wounds they heal quite slowly and some they heal quite well,
Some leave a little scarring and some won’t heal at all.
I have loved and wounded a thing most dear to me,
One who gave to me her love and gave of it full free.
She is a thing of beauty, an angel taking flight
And it’s still within her power to come to me at night
Or even in the daytime, if I cease to run
And wrack my soul with sorrow for the damage I have done.
My wounds are self-inflicted, I drove the dagger deep:
Through my heart and into hers, she lay bleeding in her
sleep.
My wounds, they lie full open, for all the World to know,
Her wounds, I have no word of – perhaps they do not show.
Perhaps she keeps them hidden, to multiply and grow,
Perhaps they’ve healed already, or they may be healing slow.
Pray for those who wait for news of their lover’s fate,
Their imaginings are awful, they are demons at the gate.
An angel by her bedside, comprised of steel and light,
Oh, angel, will you tell her everything will be alright.
Tell her we’ve no use for fear and for all our poor heart’s strife,
It was promised to us somewhere, abundant joy and life.
Some wounds they heal quite slowly and some, they heal quite well.
Some leave a little scarring and some won’t heal at all
Some won’t heal at all. (Michael Miller)