Woe that I live in sullen days,
That God is setting like a sun
And in his place, as lord and slave,
Man raises forth his heinous throne.
When he thought God was gone at last
He put his brother to the sword.
Now d**h is roaring in our ears,
Shadowing the shanties of the poor.
The old and silenced harps are hung
On yonder willow trees again.
The bawl of boys is on the wind.
Their blood is blended in the rain.