Love

It's the balm that heals the heart's wounds
And fills its empty holes.
It's the awful, searing power
That cripples tender souls.
It's the soothing snow of friendship
And the fire of romance.
This is love, a killing weapon
That can heal, given a chance.

In the strong arm of a brother,
In a lover's sweet caress,
Lies the bond, already mighty,
That is tempered under stress.
It binds souls to God and country
As to family and friend.
It inspires the reed to stand firm
And the ancient oak to bend.

While the heart can live without love,
It's as life would without light:
Slowly dying, cold and lonely,
In the unforgiving night.
'Till a heart speaks to another
It will never be at peace,
For a soulmate gives a soul
A quiet joy that will not cease.

While the one whose love has perished
Cries his anguish to the night;
When one yearns for a companion
To complete an empty life;
Be at peace. Remember, love
Is out of all things the most pure;
It will always find its way home
And will tirelessly endure.