Maranatha In November

There is a gun in every hand

And a knife to every throat

And murder sleeps in every heart

From Adam to my infant son.

Come, Lord, quickly to your children

You, the bearer of all grief

Who has breathed and borne and buried

Every daughter, every son.

Call us by our secret names

In the dark behind ourselves

Kill us lest we kill each other

And raise us from our death.