Thy aching soul strikes my pride
with poverty's sword
A glance at you melts the arrogant mind down to earth
And thus meekness dwells in the heart during the gloomiest day
I offer you my sympathy on platters of faith
Asking God to shower you with love and grace
Pouring rain of beauty to paint your lonely days
With colors of peace and glory every time your soul aches
Take my hand and let me take you far away
To temples where the poor and rich meet to pray
Where the spirit knows no gold or race
And all are one in him who won't discriminate
Take my hand and let us run in open prairies
Where lilies of the valley, daffodils and daisies
Beautify our existence with Love's finale
And your young heart flutters again in nature's harmony
My sweet, this hand of mine is capable and strong
It will offer you the warmest things and do you no wrong
It will brush away your tears of sorrow and anger
So take it, and by holding it thy orphaned soul knows no hunger.
Therese copyright, 2001
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