Lyrical Riffs We all carry our wounds,
Many of them held in the storehouse
Of our hearts, barely understood,
Even by ourselves at times.
And there is a wounded place
Where we can come with all we know
And don’t know, all we feel
And don’t feel,
It’s a place marked with a cross,
On the rubbish tip of life,
Where we can come with our
The pain, and sadness and disappointment,
And know ourselves loved and not judged,
Accepted rather than shunned.
He was despised and rejected. Belittled and passed over.
He knew pain rejection and misunderstanding first-hand.
Isaiah 53 v 2-4
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