You can tell by my creviced skin And my jotting acne That I have no love for my skin That I haven't respected God my maker In the complexity of His work I have shrunk To believe I am not worth an eyeball's turn Yet I have tasted the sun The warm reflection burns me so beautifully I rejoice in my maker For He sorted the palate and painted me the soil That I may give life to what is planted inside of me.