Just what is it in a man That can't drive by the accident? He cranes his neck to turn his head and slows down. Does he feel the need to see That blood's as red as on TV and just as thick? Or is there something in our hearts Something more than curious Calling us to play our parts as healers? Is there something dead inside That only pain can make alive? Is he simply tired of feeling nothing? Or is he somehow more alive When he's caught up in the flashing lights That stir the still and silent night to madness? Is this what makes us human? Is this what makes us whole? Is this what makes us so much more than More than simply animals? Or is there something in our hearts Something more than curious Calling us to play our parts... Is there something beautiful In the way we can't let go? Something almost magical Something greater Something almost sacred Maybe something good?