Sons

At the foot of the cross Mary weeps for her son
He’s dying young, he’s dying slow
She’s thinking back on how boys grow
And we still kill our mother’s sons
In front of the TV set a father weeps for his son
He’s dying young, he’s dying jailed
He’s thinking back on how he’s failed
And we still kill our father’s sons

A son full of the Holy Ghost, a son full of the devil
A son, friend of whores and thieves, a son a rebel
A mother, wife and seamstress, a father a union man
We still kill our mother’s sons
A mother host to angels, a father demonized
A son who turns the tables, a son of freedom denied
Years between and what has changed since this began
We still kill our father’s sons

Two sons who came to claim their birthright
Two sons who burn within our hearts
Two sons not many of chose to hear either one
We still kill our mother’s sons
Two sons with mothers, fathers, brothers
Two sons sent off to the slaughter
Two more parents left to mourn the death of their beloved ones
We still kill our father’s sons