Some days are filled with riot
Some days are full of rancor
Some days full of hard hard work
And some of battles wild

Other days just like nights
And sleepy sleepy echoes
When all the day long nothing comes
And …Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, ugh… 

And God’s own Son they called him Christ
A busy busy bee
Would turn the temple tables 
And thousands he would feed

But the night with ebon pinyon 
He brooded or the vale
He sought the lone embrace
An absent father fails. 

But even other lighter days
He’d sit and walk with friends
Or alone for thirty years
Just trying to blend in. 

I wonder if Christ’s depression
Was anything like mine
I wonder if he tossed and turned
And finally his night resigned? 

Or if there were days no living face
Could rouse him from his bed
Even in the early 
Before the thorns up on his head

Oh hell, I don’t know 
It’s just a thought of mine
Oh, holy Christ I just don’t know
Where all my hope has gone

And the blankest days
And the empty nights 
And the times of muddled mind
[I had a thought now gone]