A firm hand bleeds on bristle deeds horns of a crime now stale
From doubts seeds grow thistle weeds, thorns to tear hope\'s veil
Red stains on martyr fingers lingers pulling strangling plants
Soil wet with blood and sweat from a savior in farmer\'s pants
Crucified on his hoe so plants will grow in earth broken
His word unheard in dust interred, torn lost in the unspoken