Liquid crimson streams from wounds I've made-- Twelve smooth slices with a cold thin blade. It's not behavior that I condone, But this blood that I shed is my own. There is a pain that none can see, Not even those that think they know me. Inside my soul it's a combat zone, And the blood that is shed is my own. It's a war I know that I can not win, Yet my life's at stake; I can't give in. I am reaping what I have not sown And the blood that is shed is my own. Too weak to stand, I fall to the floor And desperately cry to God once more, "Jesus, forgive me," I faintly moan, "For this blood that I shed is my own." "Fear not," He whispers, "I love you still And I understand the way you feel. I see your pain; you are not alone. I weep, because this blood is your own. When life is too much for you to bear And it seems that I don't really care Remember that pain I, too, have known-- The blood I shed for you was my own."