A Baby Cries...
A baby cries and streaks his tears on cloth.
His father hears but ne’er a move is done.
As stupor shields his fears and stokes him wroth,
Relief and joy are only dreams unknown.
So babe and man confess their grief, appear
In sounding groans of suffered wrongs. A pure,
A puke, one needs a hope, one’s mind should fear,
For wrongs like this there is but one great cure.
A righteous hand of God will reach and wring
A noose about his lazy hazeled neck.
Or can a man who handled all so wrong
Be sung anew and dealt another deck?
A tree does fall and so it shall be laid.
But until then the last word’s not been said.