The Cry is the Same

The cry of the child who is hungry,
Whose stomach is begging for bread,
Who reaches a hand to a stranger
But knows he will never be fed.
The cry of the child who is lonely,
Who lies all alone in his room,
Whose hopes for a better tomorrow
Have melted away into doom.
The cry is the same.

The cry isn't really from hunger,
Nor is it from fear of great harm.
Each child is missing their father.
They long to be wrapped in his arms.
Their cry is the same.
Their cry is the same.

The cry of the child who is beaten,
Who dreams he will one day know love,
But thinks that the life he is living,
Is proof there is no god above.
The cry of the child who is yelled at,
And told he should not have been born,
Who listens to each lengthy tirade
With eyes that look pained and forlorn.
The cry is the same.

The cry isn't really from sorrow,
Nor is it from lack of self-worth.
The cry is from children who don't know.
The God who created the earth.
Their cry is the same.
Their cry is the same.