Blest are the innocents, Bethlehem's own,
killed by a tyrant who clings to a throne.
Not just by Herod, not just long ago,
here and today voices cry from below.
Rachel is weeping, her child is no more,
lost to the famine, the plague, and the war,
lost to the fist and the curse and the lie--
in flesh or spirit the innocents die.
Where is the comfort for those who still mourn?
Where is assurance for those yet unborn?
God, hear the blood crying out from the ground;
shine on the shadows where secrets resound.
Where can we turn, Holy God, but to you?
Lord, in your mercy, O make all things new!
Cast down the arrogant, lift up the least.
Gather your children and grant them your feast.
