1 Blest are the innocents, Bethlehem’s own,
killed by a tyrant who clings to a throne.
Not just by Herod, not just long ago,
here and today voices cry from below.
2 Rachael is weeping, her child is no more,
lost to the famine, the plague, and the war,
lost to the fist and the curse and the lie —
in flesh or spirit the innocents die.
3 Where is the comfort for those who still mourn?
Where is assurance for those yet unborn?
God, hear the blood crying out from the ground;
shine on the shadows where secrets resound.
4 Where can we turn, Holy God, but to you?
Lord, in your mercy, O make all things new!
Cast down the arrogant, lift up the least.
Gather your children and grant them your feast.