Handcarts,

Splintered

Like the dry weeds, dust

And the dreams of hope …

Still trusting in the

Promise

Of free land

And love of God.

Each sun-scorched step

You trod,

Each tear,

And blood of human soul

You lost

Has blessed the world

And cost you

Nothing less

Than the building

Of your souls

And cities,

Great Fathers of the West,

Who founded more,

Far more than land.

We stand up tall

And free.

What greater gift?

Or

Memorial

To thee.