It Is My Belief That The Only

What Broke In A Man When He Could Bring Himself To Kill Another? What Broke When He Could Bring Himself To Thrust Down The Knife Into The Warm Flesh, To Bring Down The Axe On The Living Head, To Cleave Down Between The Seeing Eyes, To Shoot The Gun That Would Drive Death Into The Beating Heart?

There Are Voices Crying What Must Be Done, A Hundred, A Thousand Voices. But What Do They Help If One Seeks For Counsel, For One Cries This, And One Cries That, And Another Cries Something That Is Neither This Nor That.

Cry, The Beloved Country, For The Unborn Child That Is The Inheritor Of Our Fear. Let Him Not Love The Earth Too Deeply... For Fear Will Rob Him Of All If He Gives Too Much.

When I Go Up There, Which Is My Intention, The Big Judge Will Say To Me, Where Are Your Wounds? And If I Say I Haven’t Any, He Will Say, Was There Nothing To Fight For? I Couldn’t Face That Question. (ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful)

There Is Only One Way In Which One Can Endure Man's Inhumanity To Man And That Is To Try, In One's Own Life, To Exemplify Man's Humanity To Man.