Toward the gray bus the young children run./Their brown eyes open wide and arms held out/
tear stained cheeks and exasperated lungs/begging for money they begin to shout

The baby’s small hand clings to my finger/as I rock her to sleep on the front porch./My heart aches, kids nearby watch and linger;/ their need for attention burns like a torch.

The people stand gathered outside of their huts;/buckets in hand to receive fresh water./The kids help carry with feet full of cuts,/ thirsty and worn like lambs to be slaughtered.

Still their joyful hearts sing out in worship;/praising the Lord amidst all their hardship.