Of rugged mountain ranges; a land of sweeping plains.
A land of mystic beauty,
A world unlike no other,
A time and place in synthesis on its own.
I'd like to believe it - what they say,
T'would be much joy to say t'is right.
To see a land as is proclaimed,
In unison, many who'd fight,
To see justice,
And us help thus,
To be a land of rights and freedom.
Yet our failures, they began,
In nations, not our own,
Yet here they are today.
We watch and stand,
Not a stone is thrown,
As we view the innocent pay.
Streets of filth, roads of death,
Though seemingly they feel alive,
We live to take, with all our breath,
In our own needs, we seem to strive,
And as a nation - no as a people,
We disregard that behind the steeple,
Yes that man who was not his own.
A people like ours in ruin,
Killed the man who spoke of love,
Perfection, he cared for the blemished,
And though murdered, he reigns above.
For such love, like this I can't explain,
I try,
I stutter,
I cry,
I mutter,
But nothing seems to come.
I murdered a man upon a cross,
Yet he decided to pay the sum.
