The wounded soul of a sinner, exposed to the flies
No one to drive them away, as he silently cries
He nurtures his pain, lets it fester and grow
Watering seeds of sorrow, tears like rivers that flow
His bed becomes a battlefield, unrest in his core
Till darkness engulfs him, as he falls to the floor
At first, he mistook joy for the pain that remained
The world, a false friend, left him unrestrained
Bound by lust, yet drowning in misery
Accused by his mind, guilt his company
Time slips away, stealing chances to heal
The wounded soul’s plea, a cry so real
As I close my eyes, I listen for a voice so clear
The Sun of Righteousness, with healing near
“Whom shall I send? Who will answer my call?
To comfort the broken, to lift them when they fall”
In search of a Samaritan, to help a neighbor in need
For the wounded soul’s echo, “Help me, help me, I bleed!”