The wounds of many a wasted year.
The curtains of the night are drawn,
Its shadows all have fled away,
For in thine eyes there dwells the dawn
And in thy smile the new born day.
A people’s love that waits thee now
Is thine to take and thine to hold,
Till God shall set upon thy brow
A crown that is not forged of gold.
Twixt Right and Wrong He yields thee choice,