These trees stand,
casting about in their solemn silence, whispering 
of the deepest secrets of man, bearing 
their hearts on the heaving winds, that cut cold
through these hallowed grounds.
And the tears of heaven wash 
the wounds from our broken hands, as we 
raise them up to praise, in the 
sorrow that we endure, heavily
on these shoulders that carry this, 
our burden; breaking image of life. 
We hope only, because we are somehow sustained, by
this love, which is so much the source of

A heart is cold
A beam is sold
For souls so beautiful
but hearts of stone

Now wounded He cries
for the heart that has died
and pain looks
from His penetrating eyes

He loves with a love
that’s despised and rejected
The priceless is sold;
the cost of our souls

Love is sold like a piece of cloth
For the merchant is broken
and the seller a thief
who steals unworthily

Are we dead to love
dead to see
our Savior who hangs
just because we
are waiting for a king