The sand that is falling on down the glass,
Is tainted, so riddled with grime,
In Two-Thousand Years the journal may ask,
’For where-in can the Soul of Man shine?
No price of Life is weighed in Gold,
For the blot of Cain is cast,
There-by we can see, such Kingdoms do fall,
By Sword or Cannon-Blast.
Hatred, Jealousy, Racial-Unrest,
Oil that gives life to the flame,
To Stamp on the Soul of Tolerance and Self,
All scars that give Humanity it’s shame.
For the People still call for Barabbas,
He’s clearly the preferred of the two,
For what have we need, of a Brotherly Creed,
A World Hand in hand with compassion,
And to live life where an Olive Branch grew.