Shooting a bird out of the
sky
Brings a little bit of the
heavens
Down around our necks.
Pulling a weed out of the
ground
Brings a little bit of hell
Up around our ankles.
It�s not so much that matters
The birds and weeds that
die,
But what we bring into our
lives.
We so blindly choose death
Each and every day, and
Make hell the bed where
we lay.
Eyes wide open choose life,
Rising above the fray, and
Make heaven our home to
stay. |