When our body is mangled we will need
Someone to do for us the deed,
Of putting upon our wounds a balm,
To heal the hurts, our hearts to calm.
It's easier to heal the skin,
Where rifting is, this soon will mend.
But how great the suffering when the heart is broken,
Or is torn apart by hurtful barbs from unkind men.
Too often they are thrown by a friend.
It matters not from friend or foe,
The missiles cause hearts bloods to flow.
How great the pain, when arrow spent,
Sinks deep inside, the heart is rent.
If one could hear the moaning heart,
I doubt they'd throw the first cruel dart.
But here it lies within my breast,
The mark was hit, the arrow rests.