As a song brings tears to our eyes
As a wren sings its sad lullabies
As the moon fades in the lonesome night
My soul waits for You, my Knight.

Fighting my way in this battle within
Yet together, there's no doubt that we will win
But where are You now? Without You, I'll falter
My soul waits for You may it be forever.

Two heads are better than one, they say
And who am I to not obey?
I'll be patient and do everything I must
To wait for You and give all my trust.

I was born yesterday
Not today
I might die tomorrow
Not yesterday

I was born yesterday

The past is past
The past is a mistake
The past is a dreadful place
The past is a place I want to forget
The past is yesterday
I was born Yesterday

Not Today

Today is the present
Today is the new opportunity
Today is a better life
Today is a miracle
I was born yesterday
Not today

I might die tomorrow

A tomorrow is a mystery
A tomorrow is a new chance
A tomorrow is what could be?
A tomorrow is a new day
A tomorrow could be a death
I was born yesterday
Not today
I might die tomorrow

Not yesterday

You know my error
Not my reason
You know my path
Not my obstacles
You know I am weak
Learn that I can be strong
You see my forehead
with mistakes
Not my palm
with hard work...

I was born yesterday
Not today
I might die tomorrow
Not yesterday

I wanted to
write you something
that said something
and I looked at your hands
like the losers of a street fight
beaten until they are no longer hands
and thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you

and I looked at your mouth
that rolled like waves on a stormy day
in a movie
a celluloid memory that is blind to me
hanging like a silver ghost
tethered to the wall by the
wrong kind of light
and it rolled and pitched and
yawed until it was no longer a mouth
and I thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you

and I looked into your mirror
that was a boomerang
a u-turn
a paddle ball in the hand of an
obsessive-compulsive mute
keeping the beat
like Belinda Carlisle
like Jane Wiedlin
and it came back to me again
again it came back to me
it came back again
to me
and I thought of nothing . . .
except . . .
anything that would mean something
anything to me

And I wanted to
write you something