We Who Put Our Hands To The Plough
We who put our hands to the plough, must finish the row,
But we who walk these paths unshod may never let go.
Under the sun we work with no play,
Only with hoes, we work all May.
Sweat swipes our brow, and a tune leaves out lips,
And it’s not a carol of joy or glee,
We came to this land over seas on ships,
Chained to our neighbor working for free.
The calm and listless vault of blue,
That hangs above us in it’s hue
Forever mocks us in it’s glory,
Setting the stage for our sorrowful story.
At night we sing and dance together
No matter where or what the weather.
For tomorrow we rise and plod,
And pray to the sky for God,
To spare us this life we lived long ago,
But we who put our hands to the plough, must always finish the row.