Mayflower
In hardship are the humble born, beat down, sore worn. And setting sail, they seek new land ~ to hide from the master's hand. "My God!" they pray, "We die this day! Our children perish! We swallow dismay!" So mercy sees, and sorrow flees the chains of honest tradery. And mercy flies toward hollowed eyes and fainting hearts to comfort a mother who cries. Great engines sore. Great doctors heal, and far too late for fantasies real. The humble are born in ships of steal. And stolen bread becomes... Sign in to see full entry.