The Blood That Crieth From The Ground Poem by Haile Tesfaye

Woe to the kings in robes of light,
who hide their hands from deeds of night;
they speak of peace, yet sharpen spears,
and build their thrones on mothers' tears.

They call their greed a holy plan,
then spill the blood of guiltless man;
they draw their lines through field and flood,
and write their laws in orphaned blood.

They teach the child another's face
is born beneath a lesser grace;
yet dust to dust, and breath to breath,
all stand alike before their death.

O earth, thou groanest under sin,
while hatred burns the hearts within;
thy rivers weep, thy valleys cry,
for innocence condemned to die.

Woe unto those who crown the sword,
and mock the justice of the Lord;
for every grave that men forget,
before His throne is numbered yet.

No flag shall cleanse the crimson stain,
no crown shall silence Abel's pain;
for blood once poured upon the plain
shall rise and speak its name again.

And when the final trumpet calls,
and pride is stripped from golden halls,
the Lord shall ask what mercy gave,
not who had power, crown, or grave.