Just what is it in a man
That can't drive by the accident?
He cranes his neck to turn his head and slows down.
Does he feel the need to see
That blood's as red as on TV and just as thick?
Or is there something in our hearts
Something more than curious
Calling us to play our parts as healers?
Is there something dead inside
That only pain can make alive?
Is he simply tired of feeling nothing?
Or is he somehow more alive
When he's caught up in the flashing lights
That stir the still and silent night to madness?
Is this what makes us human?
Is this what makes us whole?
Is this what makes us so much more than
More than simply animals?
Or is there something in our hearts
Something more than curious
Calling us to play our parts...
Is there something beautiful
In the way we can't let go?
Something almost magical
Something greater
Something almost sacred
Maybe something good?
