Little Richie was the runt of the litter, given a thick hide by father and brothers.
Identified more with his sisters and mother,
always felt a bit different from the others.
A loving marriage from the outside, but oh, how ferociously he'd hit her.
Richie stood by the bleach white bedside.
Ma held his face in her hands while he cried:
Hush, now, precious lamb, everything will be alright.
I know how it looks but I swear he's a good man.
Oh baby, G-d has a much bigger plan.
I have my family, I have my health, and I'm quite content with that.
How can you say this time that it'll be alright?
How can you still look in his eyes and see the love of your life?
(He works all things for good!
In the end, it's Love that wins!) Love was his inclination.
Belief, his dearest passion.
A beautiful escape from resentment, fear of the next crushing blow. (How can we know Love when were never shown it?) He'd wait on his lonesome for that blue hair in her station wagon.
Attending those Baptist services alone, in the house of the Lord, he found purpose and a home.
Richie stood on a chair, peeked over the pulpit, reminded himself and the beloved, not lacking in youthful wit:
This is what's promised: He works all things for good!
In the end, it's Love that wins!
How are we to know how to Love when every attempt is met with the back of a hand?
It would only be Love to mend the damned, who never grew to know compassion.
Just another unfortunate, beaten sense-less by his ol' man.
How can you say this time that it'll be alright?
How can you still look in his eyes and see the love of your life? (He works all things for good!
In the end, it's Love that wins!) An heirloom passed down before its day, legacy came violently to rip innocence away.