The glorious days that could have been.
An outcome no one but He could have seen.
Will you be quiet and listen, have your senses keen?
Things don't work out the way you want and how you mean.
Someone to hold my hands while I run, onto someone I must lean.
Something tells me, this is how things have always been.
Like birds of a feather, so too ourselves we must preen.
Because it's how He wills it, that the grass will be green.
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