Sunday Morning, Birmingham

Four little girls in ribbons, bright and new,

A Sunday morning holding quiet breath.

The church bells rang — the sky was bright and blue.

They dressed for choir like children always do,

Unknowing of the hand that plotted death.

Four little girls in ribbons, bright and new.

The city moved as ordinary grew,

While hatred worked its cold and hidden path.

The church bells rang — the sky was bright and blue.

Now history keeps what witnesses once knew,

Names carried forward, stronger still than death.

Four little girls in ribbons, bright and new.

The broken glass remembers what is true,

The silence louder than the aftermath.

The church bells rang — the sky was bright and blue.

So we repeat their names and promise through

The long, unfinished work that outlives death:

Four little girls in ribbons, bright and new,

The church bells rang — the sky was bright and blue.