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You wear your anger well and stand |
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For all the world to see |
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A heavy cloak and one gloved hand |
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And no humility |
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You stand inside the garden |
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And feast on black cherries |
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And swallow the manna from heaven |
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And spit out the seeds |
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You spread your anger on sharp-edged knives |
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Cut my skin and make it bleed |
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Like Pilate in his self-righteousness |
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You're a traitor and a thief |
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Choking on your unplanned words |
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Coughing up your lies |
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Tumbling from your mouth a flurry |
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Of broken butterflies |
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Broken butterflies |
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They rest their wings snapped in two |
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On their way to certain death |
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Their colors gold an' blue |
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But the blood that flows I cannot hide |
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That blood that covers me |
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Nourishes the butterflies |
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And they are healed and are set free |
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I wish you had what Ruth possessed |
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But then I don't expect that of you |
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Grace and honor and faithfulness |
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And the love that you refuse |
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Will you ever learn to just forgive |
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Will you open your beautiful eyes |
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And bleed the way Christ did |
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And fix the broken butterflies |