One Thing Is About To Be Finished,

Ask Yourself Not If This Or That Is Expedient, But If It Is Right.

And Were Your Back As Broad As Heaven, And Your Purse Full Of Gold, And Did Your Compassion Reach From Here To Hell Itself, There Is Nothing You Can Do.

For Mines Are For Men, Not For Money. And Money Is Not Something To Go Mad About, And Throw Your Hat Into The Air For. Money Is For Food And Clothes And Comfort, And A Visit To The Pictures. Money Is To Make Happy The Lives Of Children. Money Is For Security, And For Dreams, And For Hopes, And For Purposes. Money Is For Buying The Fruits Of The Earth, Of The Land Where You Were Born.

There Is Not Much Talking Now. A Silence Falls Upon Them All. This Is No Time To Talk Of Hedges And Fields, Or The Beauties Of Any Country. Sadness And Fear And Hate, How They Well Up In The Heart And Mind, Whenever One Opens Pages Of These Messengers Of Doom. Cry For The Broken Tribe, For The Law And The Custom That Is Gone. Aye, And Cry Aloud For The Man Who Is Dead, For The Woman And Children Bereaved. Cry, The Beloved Country, These Things Are Not Yet At An End. The Sun Pours Down On The Earth, On The Lovely Land That Man Cannot Enjoy. He Knows Only The Fear Of His Heart.

Cry, The Beloved Country, For The Unborn Child That Is The Inheritor Of Our Fear. Let Him Not Love The Earth Too Deeply... For Fear Will Rob Him Of All If He Gives Too Much.