If our troubles looked like burdens, Our pain as bloody wounds, Our struggles, fears, and worries Were bruises, stripes, and runes; Would our sympathy be greater? Our gentleness grow deep? If we saw what makes one stagger And makes the steps grow steep?
If pain could cause an injury, If words cut like a knife, If we could see the ragged flesh, The slowly ebbing life – Would we choose our tone more gently? Would we think before we speak? Would we show more love and kindness? More hands to help the weak?
If our inner pain and sorrow Played out upon our skin, Would we treat each other different, Then how we’ve always been? Why would the sight of bruises, Of cuts and blood and gore, Be what it takes to get us To love our neighbor more?