The sun sets pink, yellow, glorious, shined on that city always reverent on its hill. But either we are too close or too great a distance, to see its foundations giving way, its plants full of decay. But I could see, I could see, I could surely see that crippled man every morning hungry, drunk, and homeless on my street. And I could hear, I could hear, I could surely hear a thousand thirsty people calling (but I will never be that crutch or that drink). But if we rape and pillage the earth, take it for all that it’s worth, and ring religion’s salvation bell…the sick and imprisoned will find liberation in robes and wine, and a hell far worse than the one where they dwell! And I think I burnt my hands giving out fire, calling it a lamb. I gave armies swords to kill, an empire to build. And that solid crown, that mighty tower, I pray that it falls down, and it crushes me like a mustard seed, and spreads me out…a field white for harvest. *And I smell the stench of a million men headed in my direction. And I hear the sound of their boots on the ground; let’s plow the field with their weapons. Or just leave, let’s scale those walls, and just leave. We’ll just leave. But who holds and cradles the earth, and gives every bit of it’s worth? Who raises us along with the dead? The sick and imprisoned will find men’s systems won’t keep them, and they will have liberation in the end!