The prison stands upon a hill,
Ominously bleak and still;

And every stone we know to be
Mortared with hypocrisy;

Chiseled in the bitter name
Of our cruelty and shame.

We, who herd these prisoners
Like a pack of beaten curs,

We have made the world where they
Have been lost or gone astray.

Our failures glare like hideous scars
From these ugly prison bars.

Ours is the sin of those who wait
By the never-turning gate,

And ours the crime of those who sway
Lifeless in the faltering day.