Praise God for the wailing of the famished

In the urban deserts where wander the addicted,

For they know Grace.

Hear them belting cries for Heaven's own

Benevolence o'er their souls.

Thank You, O' Lord; though dark, warlike power looms, prevailing;

And though I hear the crooked fools, falsely, hailing

To the wicked wit of tyrants, whene'er they call,

I hear You, God in Heaven.

I hear the sound of tearing pages

And the roar of burning paper,

All earthly crimes and acquisitions

Turn to air and ash and vapor,

And the low rattle of the shackle

Far beyond throned emancipator,

And the lowliest who gather ready in their stalls.

In them, I hear You.

While the wicked sit and whistle

With their flowing money and tenuous power

I can see the wildflowers blooming

Among the rubble of the towers.

I hear Politicians cease their lying;

I hear the unborn quiet their haunting cries;

I hear soldiers halt their senseless dying, one and all.

I hear them all.

I hear the tender Word from Bethlehem;

I hear Noah's deluge fall;

I see the gentle lamb of Judah

Resting at the feet of the oldest Buddha,

And all Prophets from Elijah

To Koresh and Paiute Wovaka,

Take their destined places at Your table when they are called.