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With eyes of grey, no longer whole the cross you bare - to see no more.
That’s what I see as I look on and so I start to write this song.

Your body broke, bound to a chair. Up at the world you’re forced to stare
and watch from sidelines day to day. Then fall the verses to my page.

Your now deaf ears and muted voice reveal to me - you have no choice
but sit in isolation’s chair. The melody next comes to bare.

Your face is not as others are, left wanting redress from the scars.
Alone now more than any else. The chorus forms so as to tell.

Your mind from birth was incomplete. Cold institutions your retreat.
Shunned by the world nigh unto death. The final touches do attest.

Then pausing to review my prose, can’t help but think and want to know -
why has God left you broken such and not revealed the Healer’s touch?

Quick fall my pages into flame as wanton souls in vision’s frame
appear before my eyes of clay that seeing, see a different way.

Revealing that I have been wrong and beckons, “write a different song”.
A song that leaves me void of pride as questions make me look inside.

Though in the dark the blind must be, they cannot judge what they can’t see,
and I have sorrowed much thereby. Which one of us is broken?

And though the lame do not stand tall they do not trample one and all,
and I have sorrowed much thereby. Which one of us is broken?

And though the deaf and mute reside in silent isolation’s tide,
the silence bares the Spirit’s voice. Which one of us is broken?

And though the maimed must hide their face they do not play love’s foolish games.
Oh, I have sorrowed much thereby. Which one of us is broken?

Yes, though detested some live life, they live outside our world of strife
where I have sorrowed much thereby. Which one of us is broken?
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