November 22, 1963

Your eye was keen enough, that far away, To find your brother's head between the cross- hairs: and a deadly bullet hurtled straight. But not quite keen enough to see the scope Had found your own head, nor ears to hear What your brother's blood cried from the ground: Wound for wound, life for life, unmurdered cry.

Not so!

The trumpet-plea evoked an apt reply, A rushing carmine stream from higher ground That swept up Abel's blood in swift career And cried for gracious things; mercy, hope Slain, take vengeance in the death of hate; The triple grave marked by a single cross Quiet awaits the third and final day.