Of scars, I've got a plenty,

Of pains, I feel them strong.

Of hurts, I’ve wounded many,

Of days, they drag on long.

Of hates, I’ve done my share,

Of tears, they are there too.

Of lies, too much to bear,

Of sins, I’m in the loo.

But all will soon be mended,

And still, I fly scotch free.

No matter what I’ve sended,

I’m free and still be me.

The wounds I’ve dealt are many,

Too are the ones received.

The pain is quite uncanny,

And hard to be relieved.

But there is a wound healer,

A man sent down to us.

Of Love he is a dealer,

And he don’t make a fuss.

He watches us more closely,

Gives peace, and truth, and love.

He ends our wounds all mostly,

And others get a shove.

For healed’s a testimony,

But wounded is truer still.

Healed is followed closely,

But wounded does light the grill.

It’s harder to stay wounded,

A trust is needed, true.

For when the trumpets sounded,

Of people, he won’t need blue.

So yes he’s a wound healer,

But different can your case be.

Mended is quite the stealer,

But wounded makes people see.