There's a child who's youth is no longer marked by smooth skin.
He's calloused beyond recognition.
His mom can't even see the boy she once knew

She is plagued with worry
Drowning it out at the bars after work
And sobering up when a court mandate  allows her  to see her son
But that's only on every other weekend and alternating holidays.

Parenting party "a" shall receive the child for Christmas on even numbered years.
Parenting party "b" shall receive the child for Christmas on odd numbered years.

There's a child who's spine is no longer all that it used to be.
It's carried the weight of decimated families.
It's been stretched past all tensile capacity
As he's tried to pull himself together
Over and over.
Constantly being shattered, but always being able to stop the pieces from hitting the floor.

[insert jarring onomatopoeia for child abuse here]

The intensity from the hand that feeds him is no comparison to the gnashing teeth of the emotions driving it
As the hate, rage, and blindness is compiling
So is the doubt, fear, and confusion
A young child is left disillusioned
As his world is blown apart yet again
But the fibers of his spine reach out, hanging on to every glass-like shard

Refusing to let even one piece of himself go
Parenting party "a" may not love him but Jesus does
At least the Bible and his grandpa told him so

There is a child who's eyes don't sparkle
Except for each time tears refract the light of truth that's shining in
And It's blinding, searing, cauterizing the wounds
He is unwanted
He is abused
But even if that's all a result of his father's sin
He counts it as a mission failed
So the burden rests on him
If there was an easier yoke
the Bible and his grandpa left it all too hard to find

There is a child who is not care free
He has been indoctrinated as an employee
“Shut up!”
“Yes Sir.”

His stress is crushing his mental health
He can't move his feet fast enough
His resolve is crumbling to ash and dust
He's breaking
There's no faking anymore
He will never be able to do it right
So he starts looking for other doors

"Dad has a gun in the garage, I could...I should"

"No. What would Mom say?”

"I'll just run away" he says

"How far are you gonna get?
The shoes on your feet are mine!
The food on your plate is mine!
All you have is that coat your mom bought, 
that's plenty to get you through winter time!"

If only that little boy knew a way, truth, and light!

There's a child who's been in locked in a prison
It was a mold built by his father
A man who refused to listen
Just pushing his son even harder
Conform to my will!
Contort to my mold!
But that young boy is too broken to bend anymore
And he will soon be too bold
For He found the way. 
He knows deep love
He is God's son

There's a kid who is dead as of this day
His thick calloused skin lies in the ashes
His kinked spine is laying there in fragments 
His self is glass dust blowing through the plain
All of his tears still could not quench the flames
They sit upon the ash in pools stagnant
The prison stands strong as a crude accent
The child is gone but the mold for him stays

There is a man rising up from the dust
He cannot and will not fit in that mold
His back is straight and is made new again
Finally he knows the depth of God's love
Purified through fire and shining like gold
He's a new creature and now has smooth skin