We were but a handful of us, Walking tight-reined, fists trembling, Along a path of grass and mud, Still praying, our teeth chattering. We had but little sustenance, Our bellies hollow, our souls hardened… The rumble of our entrails Set the pace of a newborn life. A handful of men of God, Free to love Him, mad for justice, Torn away from the lives of those Who thought themselves free of vice. Afflicted by wild slanders, Beaten, tortured, besieged… Lying deep in shadowed dungeons, Half-dead, lost, defiled. What remains of our faith? Men of the Church that we were, Bearing upon our necks that cross Now heavy as lead today. What remains of that past, Yet still dear to our hearts, Of that glory, that pride To walk upright, with honor… And justice by our side? So then—what still remains?
