There Is A Lovely Road That Runs

But Sorrow Is Better Than Fear. For Fear Impoverishes Always, While Sorrow May Enrich.

There Is Not Much Talking Now. A Silence Falls Upon Them All. This Is No Time To Talk Of Hedges And Fields, Or The Beauties Of Any Country. Sadness And Fear And Hate, How They Well Up In The Heart And Mind, Whenever One Opens Pages Of These Messengers Of Doom. Cry For The Broken Tribe, For The Law And The Custom That Is Gone. Aye, And Cry Aloud For The Man Who Is Dead, For The Woman And Children Bereaved. Cry, The Beloved Country, These Things Are Not Yet At An End. The Sun Pours Down On The Earth, On The Lovely Land That Man Cannot Enjoy. He Knows Only The Fear Of His Heart.

The Ground Is Holy, Being Even As It Came From The Creator. Keep It, Guard It, Care For It, For It Keeps Men, Guards Men, Cares For Men. Destroy It And Man Is Destroyed.

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)

Let Me Not Be Afraid To Defend The Weak Because Of The Anger Of The Strong, Nor Afraid To Defend The Poor Because Of The Anger Of The Rich.