You'll meet many just like me, upon lifes busy streets. With shoulders stooped, and heads bowed low, and eyes that stare in defeat. They're souls that live within the past, where sorrow plays all parts, for a livin' death is all thats left, for men with broken hearts.
You have no right to be the judge, to critize and condemn. Just think, but for the grace of God, it would be you instead of him. One careless step, or thoughtless deed, and then the mis'ry starts. And for those who weep, death comes cheap, these men with broken hearts.
Humble you should be when they come passing by, for it's written that the greatest men never get to big to cry. Some lose faith in love and life when sorrow shoots her darts, and with hope all gone, they walk alone, these men with broken hearts.
You've never walked in that man's shoes or seen things through his eyes, or stood and watched with helpless hands while the heart inside you dies. Some were paupers, some were kings, some were masters of the arts. But in their shame they're all the same, these men with broken hearts.
Life sometimes can be so cruel that a heart will pray for death. God, why must these living dead know pain with every breath? So help your brother along the road, no matter where he starts-- for the God that made you, made them too, these men with broken hearts.
Hank's myspace is lovingly maintained by Daisy