A wisp of wind ruffles the hair
of a boy sitting upon the bench
guitar held loosely in his hands
as he looks up to the stars on high and
ponders all that has come before
and so he strums a note or two
before letting all fade to silence
except for the music of the stars
and because his face is marred
and his hands so full of scars
he knows that not all is as it should be
but he knows that all is not as it will be
because the music from far away
calls his name and seems to say

Come now, Come now
Little child
Come now and hear
Let go your past
Let go your fear
Let go your pain
and listen dear
Little child
Come now, Come now

and upon the scuffed concrete sidewalk
falls a tear
because the name he is known by
is known by
that One who he knows is
the One who composes
all the music of the stars
all the music of those scars
on the hands and on the feet
of the One whom he
is known by.