They  

tried,  

they tried 

to steal it away. 

In days of old, and new, 

and days long since passed away. 

Look, look, look at the news! 

One woman raped, 

three men shot in old, static church pews. 

Desensitized, dehumanized--  

another genocide?  

Another.  

Historical.  

Date. 

They teach us  

the words of history in 

stuffy, white painted classes, 

but my teacher just mumbles and  

checks how well his 

basketball team 

passes. 

No, really, 

this isn't a joke. 

Are you my teacher,  

or are you your teams coach? 

Girls in other countries  

have to win wars  

just to learn. 

They tell me  

to be grateful, but 

tell me, what is it that I learn? 

That my voice doesn't count until  

I turn 18? Or that just because I was born with 

ovaries, the importance of my  

thoughts are even more  

disesteemed? 

Yea that sucks.  

There. I said it. No,  

it's not proper language, 

but maybe I'm tired of being proper, 

especially in my language.  

I ask this question often, 

but I will ask it again.  

Can this world be  

mended, or is 

this the end? 

The earth is soiled, 

the sky, it remains dim,  

just like most all of the human population. 

Their hardened hearts remain bitter, 

but I will no longer capitulate. 

I anchor my soul 

where The  

Children celebrate. 

They tried, they tried to steal it away. 

The hope in their hearts, 

the assurance of  

better days. 

A promise of tomorrow  

resting on eternity's shore,  

where the poor become rich and the rich  

become poor, pain and suffering cease  

and death is no more. They tried,  

they tried to steal it away, 

but one cannot  

steal what  

cannot be  

taken away.  

Hope. 

Hope that  

as many times 

as the sun sets, it will also  

Rise. Hope. Hope that humanity can escape  

the shackles and chains of it's  

demise. Hope.  

Hope that in the  

cavities of  

darkness there is 

always a light. Hope.  

Hope for the victim and for the 

culprit holding the knife.  

Hope. Hope that 

even in the 

disillusionment, 

horror, and wickedness  

of this place, there is hope for 

reconciliation. There is hope for grace. 

My body depends on my heart  

to continue beating, 

but my soul is  

dependent on the 

One who is everlasting. 

They tried, they tried, to steal it 

away, but my Lamb was already slain 

and He is with me still today.  

He died. He rose. 

He set me free.  

Hope is  

Him, and  

hope is  

me.