The Way It Goes

Jesus was a son of Heaven, the product of loves deepest concept. We the billions, all God's children, live on earth with what we must accept- We go down to the river with baptism in our hearts. Covered in sin once again, we go hoping this is where love starts- But there's so damned many of us by the time we arrive, the river runs dry. We fall to our knees, beg please, and attempt to fill it with the tears we cry- The tears turn to dust and simply blow away. So we stop trying to make sense of it all, lower our heads and pray- Not sure who's will be done, ours, the Father's, or the son. Not sure if wondering why makes me a sinner, or if the blood, sweat and dusty tears we've all poured out somehow makes us winners- With such an old and weary soul how can a man be certain? Is it the past, present or future we know? Is it the way it was, the way it is, or just the way it always goes? - I don't believe the big-wigs are going to take care of me or you. Don't believe they're going to help any of us get through. Don't believe they even care if we don't, or if we do- I suppose it doesn't really matter all that much, 'cause things will always workout in the end, so long as we've got a few nickels and dimes, work to do, some honest friends, and true love, waiting somewhere, on whom we can depend-