That time heals all wounds I have often heard: Less poignant will the pain, the loss become, As memory grows dim and thus benumbed, Forgetful, hardly conscious of the turn Of years: its lines grow faint and indistinct. As if the painter's painting in reverse, The vivid colors fade into a sketch, The oils to a smudge of charcoal ink. My God, if that is healing, let me bleed! O let me suffer rather than be numb, And memory kept fresh and clear and clean, And thus shall ever brightly burn my love. Here in this vale of tears time hardly mends The tears that time and time and again time rends.
Time
Time
Time
That time heals all wounds I have often heard: Less poignant will the pain, the loss become, As memory grows dim and thus benumbed, Forgetful, hardly conscious of the turn Of years: its lines grow faint and indistinct. As if the painter's painting in reverse, The vivid colors fade into a sketch, The oils to a smudge of charcoal ink. My God, if that is healing, let me bleed! O let me suffer rather than be numb, And memory kept fresh and clear and clean, And thus shall ever brightly burn my love. Here in this vale of tears time hardly mends The tears that time and time and again time rends.