Evil

Evil - Joan Baez
While the red spittle of the grape-shot
Whistles all day in the infinite blue sky:
While the battalions, scarlet or green, fly,
By the King who jeers, en masse, into the pot:
While the terrible stupidity grinds and crushes,
And makes a smoking heap of a thousand men:
Poor Dead! In summer, among the rushes,
In your joy, sacred Nature, who created them!...
There's a God, who laughs at altar-cloths
Of damask, incense, and great gold chalices:
Who dozes to Hosannas for lullaby,
And wakes when mothers, gathered in their grief,
Weeping under their old black bonnets, sigh
And yield Him the coin knotted in their handkerchief.