Michael Card – Underneath The Door (Guitar)

   G              Em             C                 G
My father was a doctor who would come home late at night,

       Am                  G                   C               D
With a soul so bruised and bleeding from his unending faithful fight

   Em               D          C                 Em
To keep ahold of kindness in a world that isn’t kind,

        Am              G              C         D   G
To hold out the hope of healing to his hurting humankind.

          G                 Em           C             G
Then he’d flee back to his study, to his bookish quiet place,

     Am                  G                C              D
With notes and books and journals, to all in his special space.

    Em                  D                    C                 Em
And then he’d lock the door from things that cannot be locked out,

        Am                 G                         C     D      G
And his youngest son would starve for what he would always do without.

           Em                 D               C                Em
But it was meant to make me who I am, and for all these many years,

          Am                G                   C                 D
Still the little boy down on his knees, full of hope and full of fear,

Em             D                      C              Em
Calling underneath the door, “This is me; it’s who I am,”

       Am                 G                 C     D       G
For we love the best by listening, when we try to understand.

G                  Em            C                   G
Desperate stubby fingers pushing pictures ‘neath the door,

    Am              G                C           D
And longing to be listened to by the man that I adored.

  Em                D                C             Em
Inside someone who needed me just as much as I did him,

        Am         G                        C        D        G
Still unable to unlock the door that stayed closed inside of him.

         G                  Em                C                 G
And it’s strange the way we tend to flee from what we need the most,

       Am                G                     C                    D
That a father would lock out his son, when his heart would hold him close,

        Em                  D                        C               Em
But our wounds are part of who we are, and there is nothing left to chance,

    C                   G                          C       D        G
And pain’s the pen that writes the songs, and they call us forth to dance.