Joan Baez: Juan de la Cruz

Once again the workers rise with the larkThere's a mass going on in the people's parkSilent and determined they set to embarkOn a three day fast and a five mile marchFor a man's been shot on the picket lineSixty years of strength was young for dyingHis family is here with eyes of redHis wife steps down with feet of leadAnd the sun shines down uponThe old man whose days are doneFor a martyr has been takenHe is old Juan de la CruzAnd a century of women prayAt the casket before them laidAnd the Virgin of GuadalupeWatches over de la CruzAs the heat poured down on the field belowThe lead came a-flying from the vineyard rowDe la Cruz and his wife never ducked or ranUnion folks since the fight beganPeople scattered out laying low to the groundAnd slowly arose as the dust died downBirds fluttered soft in his sweet wife's breastAs the bullets sank deep in the old man's chestThe tears fell as Cesar readThe eulogy for the deadAnd the Bishop broke the people's breadOver old Juan de la CruzIn the pitch of night a deal was madeThe deck's oldest card was playedAnd the devil watched someone get paidFor the death of de la CruzThirty years ago in the same damn spotThe people who ordered the workers shotFought as the poor for the same damn rightOf their children to sleep well fed at nightOh Children of Brotherhood how you've grownBut the seeds of hate were early sownI see that your souls have long since flownTo the river of greed where angels moanMidst flowered veils and weathered gravesAnd flags where the great black eagle wavesNosotros Venceremos playsFor old Juan de la CruzThere's work today that must be donePray for the man who held the gunAnd with sightless eyes shot down the oneCalled old Juan de la CruzThe rest of our story now soft and clearHow half our daily bread appearsPicked through the summer by young and oldWhose earnings must last through the winter's coldBy children who have stood with their backs bent downTo scrape the roots from the grower's groundAnd mothers who have wept the night awayFor a child born dead on a rainy dayWell it's true that blessed are the poorThrough an iron mist - I can't be sure -It looks like I see heaven's doorSwinging wide for de la CruzThe nuns, the priests and the workers singThrough a valley of blood their voices ringHallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, LordFor old Juan de la CruzHallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, LordFor old Juan de la Cruz