Break

If sacred land we tread with hearts
uncluttered by cares that fill our days,
and if we turn with all our skill and arts
and vow to mend our sinful ways,
and if we turn our love on all that we see
and hate not the bad and loving still
those that do harm us, then surely we'll be
children of God, beset by no ill.
For how can it be that blood is shed still,
when all these long centuries, lo, it's been shed?
Has it not been enough, have we not had our fill?
Will we not stop to count the numberless dead?

Mother says only love can heal this ache,
we must love and love, till our hardened hearts break.