May God above let curses fall to Earth
The day we fail to see our children weep;
May all the comfort of each home and hearth
Into our icy homes refuse to seep.
When beggars in the street no longer stir
An ache in every heart still warm with blood,
In every street below let it be heard
That hope is dead, and ground into the mud.
When music can no longer draw a tear,
And poets cannot break through frozen thoughts,
When no one cheers the coming of each year
And children do not play in Jack's fresh frost,
No longer will we fear the Devil's gate;
The worst we'll ever face is our own hate.