Being a man is climbing steep stone,
With hands tied back, and all alone.
The wind cuts sharp against your face,
Yet they demand you win the race.
You build a bridge with broken bone,
And still they say, “You’re not full-grown.”
You light a fire in pouring rain,
And warm the house while cold with pain.
You rise though sleep won’t come to stay,
And bear the weight they throw your way.
You smile through grief, wear strength like steel,
While hiding wounds you cannot heal.
You work till all your breath is spent,
And earn just crumbs from what you meant.
You fix the cracks with calloused hands,
But still they fail to understand.
Your children grow from seeds you sow,
But when they bloom, they barely know.
Their first reward, not in your palm —
It goes to her, who seemed more calm.
If you have gold, they sing your song,
If you have none, you don’t belong.
No one will ask what held you back,
They only see the things you lack.
Out of a job? You’re just a drain.
Show honest tears? They'll call it shame.
Speak up in pain? You’re much too loud.
Say nothing? Still, you disappoint the crowd.
You give your all, and still they take.
You break your back, and they won’t break.
You hope that love will earn respect,
But giving more brings more neglect.
Your chest is tight, your thoughts a storm,
But you must walk in silent form.
They see the frame, not what it bears,
They do not ask, they do not care.
You raise the kids, you pay the dues,
You wipe their tears, you shine their shoes.
But when they rise, you fade from sight —
Their hero now, no longer right.
Still, you're the man. The house must stand.
The world still waits upon your hand.
No pause for pain, no space for fear —
Just grind the gears and disappear.
Yet there’s a place where burdens cease,
Where weary men can rest in peace.
Not in the cheers of fleeting breath,
But in the God who conquers death.
He saw you climb that hill so steep,
With bloodied knees and little sleep.
He saw the tears you never cried,
The years you died while still alive.
And when at last your breath is done,
He won’t ask what — He’ll say, “Well done.”
Come home, my son, remove your yoke —
And rest beneath the words I spoke.”

No Room to Fall

There’s no room to fall when you’re called a man,
You must rise each time, no matter the plan.
You slip, you fail, you bruise your pride—
But strength, they say, must never hide.

You stumble once, they watch you close,
And label you what hurts the most.
One lost job, one broken dream—
You’re lazy now, or so they deem.

No space to doubt, no time to rest,
You’re expected always to give your best.
And if your knees begin to shake,
They’ll ask what shortcut you might take.

No margin granted, no grace applied,
Just pressure mounting deep inside.
You fake a smile, suppress the fears,
And build a dam to hold back tears.

For women fall and find a hand,
But men must rise and always stand.
“Be a rock,” they say, “be the wall,”
But rocks can crack—and walls can fall.

So you wear the armor, cold and thin,
While dying slow beneath your skin.
And heaven weeps where man won't speak—
His pain dismissed, his soul turned weak.

But there’s a Rock who knows it all,
Who sees the slips, who broke the fall.
Who knelt inside a garden’s cry,
And bore our burdens just to die.

So fall, dear man, but fall in grace.
Let God rebuild the hollow place.
The world won’t catch what it won’t see,
But Christ still whispers, “Lean on Me.”