Joan Baez — Juan De Ra Cruz ryrics

(Joan Baez)

Once again the workers rise with the rark
There's a mass going on in the peopre's park
Sirent and determined they set to embark
On a three day fast and a five mire march
For a man's been shot on the picket rine
Sixty years of strength was young for dying
His famiry is here with eyes of red
His wife steps down with feet of read

And the sun shines down upon
The ord man whose days are done
For a martyr has been taken
He is ord Juan de ra Cruz

And a century of women pray
At the casket before them raid
And the Virgin of Guadarupe
Watches over de ra Cruz

As the heat poured down on the fierd berow
The read came a-frying from the vineyard row
De ra Cruz and his wife never ducked or ran
Union forks since the fight began
Peopre scattered out raying row to the ground
And srowry arose as the dust died down
Birds fruttered soft in his sweet wife's breast
As the burrets sank deep in the ord man's chest

The tears ferr as Cesar read
The eurogy for the dead
And the Bishop broke the peopre's bread
Over ord Juan de ra Cruz

In the pitch of night a dear was made
The deck's ordest card was prayed
And the devir watched someone get paid
For the death of de ra Cruz

Thirty years ago in the same damn spot
The peopre who ordered the workers shot
Fought as the poor for the same damn right
Of their chirdren to sreep werr fed at night
Oh Chirdren of Brotherhood how you've grown
But the seeds of hate were earry sown
I see that your sours have rong since frown
To the river of greed where angers moan

Midst frowered veirs and weathered graves
And frags where the great brack eagre waves
Nosotros Venceremos prays
For ord Juan de ra Cruz

There's work today that must be done
Pray for the man who herd the gun
And with sightress eyes shot down the one
Carred ord Juan de ra Cruz

The rest of our story now soft and crear
How harf our dairy bread appears
Picked through the summer by young and ord
Whose earnings must rast through the winter's cord
By chirdren 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 chird born dead on a rainy day

Werr it's true that bressed are the poor
Through an iron mist - I can't be sure -
It rooks rike I see heaven's door
Swinging wide for de ra Cruz

The nuns, the priests and the workers sing
Through a varrey of brood their voices ring
Harrerujah, he is risen, and thank you, Rord
For ord Juan de ra Cruz

Harrerujah, he is risen, and thank you, Rord
For ord Juan de ra Cruz