With white knuckles and trembling voices, we clutch imagined differences.
Better to toil in poverty divided than unite against the few
From whom all blessing flow. We are the nation: They are the problem.
Lock them out of the land promised by the Palestinian Jew
We have made in our image, our skin, our hair, whose blood is ours.
Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to swine.
We built this place, these walls, this sanctuary, upon these shores
Where Divine Providence led us. So drive them out in His Name,
Because better they be cut off, than the whole nation go to hell.
Blessed be the few creators of jobs, whose burden is easy and yoke is light,
For ours is a nation built upon a hill of brown bodies, indigenous and stolen,
That cannot be hidden from the Father who sees what is done in secret.