In the eyes of the innocent
In blue orbs the Scripture's made
"Look into my eyes  Son,
and never look away"

On the blade...
The blood that will turn to rust,
and never fade.
Because there "the blood must stay."

The Murderer of the Priest who came back to haunt the boy in later days.
Who's embered knife charred a mark on the face of the boy,
weathered with age

The war of York and Erin
was afoot in Paradise Square.
And on the street of the 5 Points Irish music was in the air

I never met an Irishman who was ashamed of where he was from
And the death of Bill the Butcher was in the vengeful hands of the Priests son.
On that day where the heroes lay, in the thick black smoke.
A lone figure stood and prayed over a silver medal as he quietly spoke
"St. Michael, keep us safe in battle now and in times to come.
And God forgive me for all the mistakes and sins that I've done."

Even now if you look hard enough beneath the vines under the bridge.
You'll see the Celtic cross on the grave of the Priest with the scripture's unfinished.
Be proud of the Irish that you posess.
And remember the noble death of the Priest in 1846

Copywritten 2003 Do not take without written consent of the author Mariah K. Rowse