One Thing Is About To Be Finished,

One Day In Johannesburg, And Already The Tribe Was Being Rebuilt, The House And Soul Being Restored.

I Am A Weak And Sinful Man, But God Put His Hands On Me, That Is All.

Cry, The Beloved Country, For The Unborn Child That's The Inheritor Of Our Fear. Let Him Not Love The Earth Too Deeply. Let Him Not Laugh Too Gladly When The Water Runs Through His Fingers, Nor Stand Too Silent When The Setting Sun Makes Red The Veld With Fire. Let Him Not Be Too Moved When The Birds Of His Land Are Singing. Nor Give Too Much Of His Heart To A Mountain Or A Valley. For Fear Will Rob Him If He Gives Too Much.

St. Francis Of Assisi Taught Me That There Is A Wound In The Creation And That The Greatest Use We Could Make Of Our Lives Was To Ask To Be Made A Healer Of It.

There Is Not Much Talking Now. A Silence Falls Upon Them All. This Is No Time To Talk Of Hedges And Fields, Or The Beauties Of Any Country. Sadness And Fear And Hate, How They Well Up In The Heart And Mind, Whenever One Opens Pages Of These Messengers Of Doom. Cry For The Broken Tribe, For The Law And The Custom That Is Gone. Aye, And Cry Aloud For The Man Who Is Dead, For The Woman And Children Bereaved. Cry, The Beloved Country, These Things Are Not Yet At An End. The Sun Pours Down On The Earth, On The Lovely Land That Man Cannot Enjoy. He Knows Only The Fear Of His Heart.