There's an old tree in an Ansel Adams photo,
Gnarled and twisted by the wind.
And where the limbs have snapped it has healed back over--
Never to be broken again.
In the same way our spirits are shattered
With each foe we contend.
And our hearts grow callused,
And our heads grow thick,
And our patience grows alarmingly thin.
Chorus:
But we grow stronger in
The broken places--
Broken places mend.
We grow stronger in
The broken places--
And hope we don't get hurt again.
Like a favorite pair of jeans,
Old and faded,
Just the lightest shade of blue.
But the fabric holds where the patches are--
They find another place to wear through.
So, we bob and weave, we dance around the ring,
With every round that we spar.
And the glove never touches us the same place twice--
Until we finally drop our guard.
Chorus
So we turn the other cheek,
And we turn the other cheek,
Until we run out of face.
And we learn to forgive,
And we learn to forget,
But not at the same pace.
Because it's hard to heal
When a wound is fresh and
You're trying not to bleed.
But the hole will close and
The pain will stop,
Just as surely as you breathe.
Chorus