True love is a crimson coat
That no one dares to wear.
It's talked about, and dreamed about,
But no one seems to care.
It stays locked in a wardrobe,
And seldom looked upon;
But no one dares to wear the coat
That only One has donned.
That One, they say, who wore the coat
Was often called a Son.
A son, by whom, the people say,
Victory o're death had won.
The coat had earned its color
By the blood that He had spilt.
But, died he not
How grass dies, or how roses wilt.
Who can match this sacrifice?
Who compare to this?
Can anyone amount to it
With just one simple kiss?
With just one hung, an "I love you";
An action, oh-so-trite.
Can any show a love that's true?
And don the coat, they might?