tell me I’m alone in thinking

none of us can really see ourselves

till we’re reflected in the eyes of someone else

 

I have looked but never seen the depths of that identity

and so within the mirror I can’t even find myself

 

sometimes when the fire dies

it’s hard to keep the hope alive but

 

hand up to God

when she comes around

here in my soul

I’ll open my heart to her

 

up there on the rooftop by the silent empty watchtower

a procession takes its solemn course on predetermined steps

every day like clockwork as we exercise our duty 

and the purpose is the purpose and it all seems for the best

 

strange that it must be this way

day after day, day after day but

 

hand up to God

when she comes around

here in my soul

I’ll open my heart to her

 

to you