Verse 1 — Every morning, they get dressed, but there's a war beneath their clothes, A thousand little fears they carry that nobody ever knows. They practice looking fearless in the mirror by the door, Then stand there asking God what they're supposed to face it for. There's a group chat full of threats, and there's a crowd that wants a show, And a hundred people know what's coming, but nobody says no. They've been laughed at, pushed around, made to feel they don't belong, So they hide behind a bathroom door and wonder what's so wrong. Their stomach twists at every footstep, every whisper feels like blame, They start to hate the sound of someone calling out their name. They wish they could be invisible, just disappear from sight, Because surviving one more school day feels like winning one more fight. And Mama asks, "How was your day?" They say, "It was okay." Then turn their face toward the bedroom wall and cry the hurt away. Oh, if we could hear the prayers that children whisper through their tears, We'd understand that some have been afraid for far too many years. Chorus — Please, God, let my baby come home, Don't let them die out there feeling frightened and alone. Don't let the last words that I hear be words I can't undo, Don't let the world take everything I ever dreamed they'd do. They're somebody's little miracle, somebody's answered prayer, Somebody who would trade their life to keep them safe from there. Please, God, don't let another mother learn to live this way, Don't let another child become a picture people mourn someday. They're not a statistic. They're a heartbeat. They're a name. They're a thousand dreams still waiting for a chance to find their flame. Please, God, let my baby come home… I don't know how much more this world can take away. Verse 2 — They said it was a fair fight, but a crowd against one isn't fair, It's a child against a hundred eyes that watch and leave them there. Some are laughing, some are filming, some are cheering at the scene, While a frightened soul is begging for the person they once seemed. A fist can break a cheekbone, but humiliation digs much deeper, And the replay of that moment follows home and steals their sleep, too. They replay every second, every face that stood around, Every friend who could have helped them but just watched them hit the ground. They wonder if their worth was less, if they deserved the pain, If being kind was weakness, if there's anything left to gain. And tomorrow they must face the very same ones in the hall, Pretending that it didn't hurt, pretending they're not small. But what you call a few bad minutes may become their darkest year, And the laughter of a crowd can sound like thunder in their ears. Tell me, what kind of victory is found in making someone break? What kind of soul sleeps peacefully knowing what their hands can take? You cannot build a stronger heart by teaching it to bleed, And you cannot call it courage when the cruel outnumber the weak. Verse 3 — A mother is folding laundry, dreaming of the years ahead, While somewhere, there's a child who's fighting for the life inside their chest. One sound tears through the evening, and the world begins to run, And somewhere in the chaos, someone's daughter, someone's son… Is lying where they fell, while somebody screams their name, And the people who were joking moments earlier don't look the same. There's a friend who can't stop shaking, there's a witness who can't speak, There's a child who's now a lifetime older than they were last week. And Mama's phone is ringing, but she doesn't know just why, She answers with a "Hello, baby?" and a smile behind her eyes. But the voice on the other end won't tell her what she needs, And every passing second plants a new and terrible seed. She says, "No, that's not my baby. No, you must have got it wrong." Because a mother's heart keeps fighting even when the hope feels gone. She runs into the hospital, her whole body trembling, Begging God to take the pain away, to change what she's been seeing. And all the years she dreamed about begin to flood her mind— First steps, first words, scraped knees, the little hand inside her own. Now she's staring at a doorway, praying they won't leave alone. Nobody ever tells a mother how to bury half her soul. Nobody teaches her to breathe
