The Rock Cries Out to Us Today

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    A Rock, A River, A Tree

    Hosts to species long since departed,

    Mark the mastodon.

    The dinosaur, who left dry tokens

    Of their sojourn here

    On our pla floor,

    Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom

    Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

    But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

    e, you may stand upon my

    Bad face your distainy,

    But seek no haven in my shadow.

    I will give you no hiding place down here.

    You, created only a little lower than

    The angels, have crouched too long in

    The bruising darkness,

    Have lain too long

    Face down in ignorance.

    Your mouths spelling words

    Armed for slaughter.

    The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,

    But do not hide your face.

    Across the wall of the world,

    A river sings a beautiful song,

    e rest here by my side.

    Each of you a bordered p></samp>untry,

    Delicate and strangely made proud,

    Yet thrustiually under siege.

    Your armed struggles for profit

    Have left collars of waste upon

    My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

    Yet, today I call you to my riverside,

    If you will study war no more.

    e, clad in pead I will sing the songs

    The Creatave to me whe></a>n I

    And the tree and stone were one.

    Before icism was a bloody sear across your brow

    And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

    The river sings and sings on.

    There is a true yearning to respond to

    The singing river and the wise rock.

    So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,

    The Afri and Native Ameri, the Sioux,

    The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,

    The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,

    The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

    The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.

    They hear. They all hear

    The speaking of the tree.

    Today, the first and last of every tree

    Speaks to humankind. e to me, here beside the river.

    Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.

    Each of you, desdant of some passed on

    Traveller, has been paid for.

    You, who gave me my first name,

    You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,

    You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,

    Then forced on bloody feet,

    Left me to the employment of other seekers--

    Desperate fain, starving fold.

    You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...

    You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,

    Bought,<bdi>?９９lｉb.</bdi> sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

    Praying for a dream.

    Here, root yourselves beside me.

    I am the tree planted by the river,

    Which will not be moved.

    I, the rock, I the river, I the tree

    I am yours--your passages have been paid.

    Lift up your faces, you have a pierg need

    For this bright m dawning for you.

    History, despite its wreng pain,

    ot be unlived, and if faced with ce,

    Need not be lived again.

    Lift up your eyes upon

    The day breaki<q>９9ｌｉb?</q>ng for you.

    Give birth again

    To the dream.

    Women, children, men,

    Take it into the palms of your hands.

    Mold it into the shape of your most

    Private need. Sculpt it into

    The image of your most public self.

    Lift up your hearts.

    Eaew hour holds new ces

    For new beginnings.

    Do not be wedded forever

    To fear, yoked eternally

    To brutishness.

    The horizon leans forward,

    you space to plaew steps of ge.

    Here, on the pulse of this fine day

    You may have the ce

    To look up and out upon me,

    The rock, the river, the tree, your try.

    o Midas than the mendit.

    o you now than the mastodo<bdi></bdi>n then.

    Here on the pulse of this new day

    You may have the grace to look up and out

    And into your sisters eyes,

    Into your brothers face, your try

    And say simply

    Very simply

    With hope

    Good m.

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