Torn
A gift is everything when you're young, it's the meaning of love.
Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
but the ingestion of the offering, ravenous for connection
once you're too big for anyone's lap.
Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed.
Once you're too big for anyone's lap,
your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.
Leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed
like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut.
Your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts.
Like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut
away from innocence, away from purity.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts
leaving you stripped, torn like paper.
Away from innocence, away from purity
you run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame
leaving you stripped, torn like paper,
a crumpled work of art, waiting.
You run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame.
Nestle deep, you with your shut eyes, he sees you,
a crumpled work of art waiting.
His gift is everything, it's the meaning of love.
A gift is everything when you're young, it's the meaning of love.
Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
but the ingestion of the offering, ravenous for connection
once you're too big for anyone's lap.
Not the paper and ribbon, or the tearing open,
leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed.
Once you're too big for anyone's lap,
your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.
Leaving crumpled works of art inside out, flayed
like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut.
Your spot on the couch is like a hair shirt.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts.
Like dreams of entwined limbs, of losing yourself, eyes shut
away from innocence, away from purity.
The bed beckons, yawns, offers counterfeit gifts
leaving you stripped, torn like paper.
Away from innocence, away from purity
you run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame
leaving you stripped, torn like paper,
a crumpled work of art, waiting.
You run, and only God's lap will cradle the shame.
Nestle deep, you with your shut eyes, he sees you,
a crumpled work of art waiting.
His gift is everything, it's the meaning of love.