A man must have blood on his hands
Before he can think himself a father
The blood must be his own
Cuts and scrapes from the toil of work
To grant the wishes their children hold
Scars and bruises from walking on hands and knees
From dragging themselves over the fires of Hell
So as to keep them from pain and sorrow
But most of all the blood must be freely sacrificed
That a man’s own hurt is meaningless
If endured because of the love in their heart.
Copyright: authorchrisbrown
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