Juan De La Cruz

Once again the workers rise with the lark

There's a mass going on in the people's park

Silent and determined they set to embark

On a three day fast and a five mile march

For a man's been shot on the picket line

Sixty years of strength was young for dying

His family is here with eyes of red

His wife steps down with feet of lead

And the sun shines down upon

The old man whose days are done

For a martyr has been taken

He is old Juan de la Cruz

And a century of women pray

At the casket before them laid

And the Virgin of Guadalupe

Watches over de la Cruz

As the heat poured down on the field below

The lead came a-flying from the vineyard row

De la Cruz and his wife never ducked or ran

Union folks since the fight began

People scattered out laying low to the ground

And slowly arose as the dust died down

Birds fluttered soft in his sweet wife's breast

As the bullets sank deep in the old man's chest

The tears fell as Cesar read

The eulogy for the dead

And the Bishop broke the people's bread

Over old Juan de la Cruz

In the pitch of night a deal was made

The deck's oldest card was played

And the devil watched someone get paid

For the death of de la Cruz

Thirty years ago in the same damn spot

The people who ordered the workers shot

Fought as the poor for the same damn right

Of their children to sleep well fed at night

Oh Children of Brotherhood how you've grown

But the seeds of hate were early sown

I see that your souls have long since flown

To the river of greed where angels moan

Midst flowered veils and weathered graves

And flags where the great black eagle waves

Nosotros Venceremos plays

For old Juan de la Cruz

There's work today that must be done

Pray for the man who held the gun

And with sightless eyes shot down the one

Called old Juan de la Cruz

The rest of our story now soft and clear

How half our daily bread appears

Picked through the summer by young and old

Whose earnings must last through the winter's cold

By children who have stood with their backs bent down

To scrape the roots from the grower's ground

And mothers who have wept the night away

For a child born dead on a rainy day

Well it's true that blessed are the poor

Through an iron mist - I can't be sure -

It looks like I see heaven's door

Swinging wide for de la Cruz

The nuns, the priests and the workers sing

Through a valley of blood their voices ring

Hallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, Lord

For old Juan de la Cruz

Hallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, Lord

For old Juan de la Cruz