To The Crucified Homeland
An orphan's fate, to stray and stumble
On ways of blood and fire, is thine...
Yet in your wordless grief, my humble,
Believing heart, await the Sign...
Hail beats the crop, stark lightnings cleave it,
The ancient shields are sighs and groans,
Yet He who built this land, believe it,
Makes wine of tears and bread of stones.
You labor painfully and slowly
Through fruitless days of blight and sleet,
Yet trust and deem divine the lowly,
Mute stigmata of bleeding feet.
And though the pain seem daily greater
And blessing bitter from above,
Lift up the mind to the Creator
For the last victory of love.
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