The world will tell you that it’s broken,
A useless, shattered, ended thing,
Its tender chambers cruelly cracked open,
It’s fleshy vaults left shuddering.
They see the punctures and the scars,
The shocking blade of sharp betrayal,
And leave it lone behind cold bars,
To bleed within its hidden grail.

But oh my dear, don’t let it shrink and dry,
And wither like a dried-up prune,
Or watch its fading embers die,
Forgetting its celestial tune.
For what heartbreak is to the true,
Is something precious and set apart,
A deeper grace of a higher kind,
That sanctifies the pure one’s heart.

The very piercing is the act,
That strikes the primordial spark,
And upward leaps the flame intact,
Lighting the altar in the dark.
The thorns that bind the beating core,
Are not the instruments of death.
They open wide an ancient door,
Awakening everlasting breath.

To suffer thus is to be holy,
To burn with love for all the earth,
To raise within what once was lowly,
And know the passion of rebirth.
For once the flame is bravely lit,
The sacred fire takes its throne.
No mortal hand can conquer it,
No shadow can assail its home.

So let the living river flow,
And feel eternity begin.
The deepest wound you’ll ever know,
Is where the light is breaking in.
A soul thus pierced can rise much higher,
Redeemed beyond all earthly fleeting.
From every wound ascends the fire:
A heart filled with sorrow never stops beating.