No more hear the song of thrush or sparrow
Our lives a passing show  like the snows of
yesteryear  Nothing now remains of the
remains of Flora who passed from this realm
into the land of promise  
                                   Her tomb no-
thing more than a tabernacle of dust
This is the way of the world  of rivers
that run down to the sea  Silenced the loud
political mouths of unrighteous days
Slaves to the constraints of time and space we
struggle to find our freedoms  The stables
of Bethlehem have been desecrated
Our birthright of innocence traded for
thirty counterfeit
                        pieces of silver

John Lyons