All your heartaches
All your sufferings
All your trials...
Are Gold
Here's to the woman who's left to raise her children
She doesn't know the first thing about how to make a living
And all the birthdays, and ballgames, and Christmas mornings will never be the same
Blessed are the poor in spirit
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven
But still I found death seems to bring forth life
All your sorrows
All your pain
All your trials...are Gold