Abstract:
Paste is a type of glue made from starch or dextrin, a starch product. This investigatory project shows that we can produce our own colored paste without spending much time and money and by performing simple steps. That’s why this Science Investigatory Project can help students save their money instead of spending it in buying expensive and commercialized colored glue. In addition, this colored paste can be an additional source of income. It’s not just affordable; it’s also safe and non-toxic because the ingredients used are starch, water, natural dyes from plants and alum. Alum is used as preservative to prolong the shelf-life of the paste. Natural dyes from plants like Annatto seeds, mayana and turmeric were tested as coloring for this paste. We can also use other coloring from plants by researching and do further study to improve the quality of this colored paste.
Introduction:
Background of the Study:
Nowadays our country has big problem about our economy. Everyone to solve it, but what do you think are the possible ways to prevent his crisis? I suggest that being practical is one of the solution to this problem. As students, we can be practical by using our knowledge instead of wasting our money. These projects do not need much time and money because we can make our own colored paste within a short period of time. The basic ingredients are water, alum, natural dye from plants and cassava starch. Starch glue is the general name for adhesives made from wheat, starch, potato starch, cornstarch or cassava starch modified with acids, alkalies or oxidizing agents. I used alum in this project to prolong the shelf life of the paste and also to let the paste not to be spoiled easily. The coloring that we used in this experiment is the seeds of Annatto (BIXA ORELLANA Linn). The seeds of the Annatto are used locally for coloring food. The coloring matter of the fruit, Annatto is employed commercially for coloring butter and in preparation of various polishers for russet leather. I also tested the roots of turmeric (Curcuma Longa Linn.) as coloring. The rhizomes of turmeric, or dilau, are commonly sold in the Manila markets, and are used as a condiment as ingredients of curry powder, and for coloring food and other materials.
Statement of the Problem:
This study sought to answer the following problems:
1. Can we produce colored paste out of cassava starch, water, alum and natural dyes from plants like Annatto seeds, mayana and roots of turmeric?
2. Is the proposed paste safe to use?
3. What is the best preservative that can be used in the colored paste?
Hypothesis:
1. We can produce colored paste out of cassava starch, natural dyes from plants like Annatto seeds, mayana and roots of turmeric, alum and water.
2. The proposed paste is safe to use.
3. Alum is the best preservative for colored paste.
Significance of the Study:
The significance of the study I that we can produce colored paste without wasting much time and money. For example, your house is very far from the bookstore and there is no available colored glue in the store near to your house and you need to design a birthday card. You can produce colored paste instead of traveling very far from your house to the bookstore just to buy expensive colored glues. This project can help not only students but also those who don’t have permanent job because it can be additional source of income.
Objective of the Study:
The objectives of this study are:
1. To make a cheaper colored paste.
2. To make a non toxic and safe paste.
3. To lessen the burden of the students who undergo financial difficulties on how to budget their money.
Scope and Delimitations:
This Study has the following scope and delimitations:
1. This study used only Annatto seeds, mayana and turmeric as the coloring.
In my first experiment, I used the leaves of mayana as coloring but the color varied after one day. I have already tried to use flowers as coloring but the paste hardens because I put it in the jar without waiting for it to cool.
2. This is produced only to have instant colored paste.
Review of Related Literature:
Starch may be further processed into such products as dextrin.
Starch glue is the general name for adhesives made from wheat starch, potato starch, or cassava starch modified with acids, alkalies, or oxidizing agents, it has poor resistance to moisture.
Commercial is obtained from the starch of tapioca, maize and sweet potatoes.
The halogen elements (fluorine, chlorine, bromine, iodine, and astatine) also serve as oxidizing agents. When chloride combines with sodium chloride or common salt, the sodium atoms give up electron to the chloride atoms.
A salt is derived from an acid when one or more hydrogen atoms of the acid are replaced by one or more metal ions positively charged radicals.
Alkalies are usually salts or hydroxide of sodium potassium, lithium or ammonia.
The seeds of the Annatto tree are used locally for coloring food. The coloring matter of the fruit, Annatto, is employed commercially for coloring butter and in the preparation of various polishers for russet leather.
The rhizomes of turmeric, or dilau, are commonly sold in Manila markets, and are used as condiments as an ingredients of curry powder, and for coloring food and other materials.
Turmeric is one of the best-known material dyes. Being used for dyeing silk, wool and cotton.
Alumina is used to make abrasive and high-temperature refraction’s, ceramics and glass.
Heated Alumina has a porous structure that easily absorbs moisture and vapors.
Alumina compounds produce alums are used for waterproofing fabrics and as the antiperspirant commercial deodorant.
Definition of Terms:
Paste – a type of glue made from starch or dextrin, a starch product.
Dextrin – a gummy substance used primarily in making adhesives.
Rhizomes – a fleshy horizontal underground stem of some perennial herbs.
Alkali – in chemistry, alkali generally refers to any strongly basic compound.
Annatto – (BIXA ORELLANA Linn) English name: Annatto tagalong name: Atsuete.
Alum – any of a group of compounds that contain the sulfates of two different
Metals – aluminum is often of the metals – and water of hydration.
Methodology:
Materials and Equipment to be used:
* Casserole * Cassava starch
* Bowl * Alum (tawas)
* Stove * Natural dye
* Mortar and Pestle * Strainer
Procedures:
First you must prepare all the materials needed. After preparing, extract the coloring. If you will use leaves, extract it by sleeping it into half cup of hot water. If roots of turmeric will be used as coloring, grind it in the mortar and pestle then cover with half cup of hot water. And if you will use Annatto seeds, extract it by covering with half cup of hot water. After extracting separate the dye from the solid particles by pouring it to the strainer. Add 2 teaspoon of alum into the coloring in a bowl. Add 3 teaspoon of cassava starch. Heat the casserole in the stove and pour the solution if the casserole is already hot. Stir until it becomes sticky. If it is sticky enough remove the casserole in the stove and wait for it to cool. If it hot anymore, you can transfer it in the container.
Data to be controlled:
This study needs only to produce a colored paste that is why no data will be collected. This only need to describe the product produced.
Presentation and Analysis of Data:
1. Observation in Coloring Used
Coloring Used Observation
Annatto seeds The color did not fade
Mayana leaves The color faded after 1 day
Roots of Turmeric The color did not fade
The table shows that Annatto seeds and roots of Turmeric can be used to produce colored paste. The mayana leaves can be used but faded after one day.
2. Observations in Preservatives used to prolong the shelf life of the paste.
Preservatives Observations
Alum (tawas) Still sticky after four days and not spoiled yet dries up easily.
Oil Spoiled after one day
Salt Less sticky after four days not spoiled yet. Do not drive up easily
The table shows that tawas or alum is the best preservative for colored paste.
Summary:
We can produce colored paste by using cassava starch, water, alum and natural dyes from plants. Alum is the best preservative for paste. In this project, Annatto seeds and roots of turmeric plant was the best coloring. Through this Science Investigatory Project, we can produce affordable and safe paste because the ingredients used were not having toxic chemicals. This project can be an additional source of income for those who don’t have permanent job. And also, it can help students to produce their own paste instead of buying high priced and commercialized colored glues.
Conclusion:
After the study had been done, the following conclusions were made.
1. We can produce a colored paste out of natural dyes from Annatto seeds, mayana leaves and roots of turmeric.
2. The produced paste is safe to use since it does not contain any toxic chemicals.
3. The tawas or alum is the best preservative for colored paste.
Recommendation:
The following recommendation was given
1. Perform further study in producing other color of the colored paste using other plants.
2. Test other preservatives to lengthen the shelf life of the colored paste.
3. Do further study to improve the quality of the colored paste made.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
"Tribute by Anthony"
Oratorical Pieces
From Julius Caesar
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious,
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, –
For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men –
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar;
And I must pause till it come back to me.
From Julius Caesar
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious,
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, –
For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men –
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar;
And I must pause till it come back to me.
"The Defense Of Brutus"
As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him.
There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor; and death for his ambition.
Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
I pause for a reply.
There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor; and death for his ambition.
Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak: for him have I offended.
I pause for a reply.
"Shylock’s Defense"
Oratorical Pieces
by William Shakespeare
(from The Merchant of Venice Act III, Scene I, lines 43-61)
To bait fish withal: if it feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge! If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
by William Shakespeare
(from The Merchant of Venice Act III, Scene I, lines 43-61)
To bait fish withal: if it feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge! If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
"I Have a Dream"
Oratorical Pieces
by Martin Luther King, Jr.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free.
One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land.
So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.
This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.
So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights.
The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. we must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" we can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal." I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring." And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania! Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado! Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California! But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia! Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
by Martin Luther King, Jr.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free.
One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land.
So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.
This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.
So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights.
The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. we must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" we can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal." I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring." And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania! Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado! Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California! But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia! Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
"Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Death"
Oratorical Pieces
by Patrick Henry
I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry has been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free-- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending--if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained--we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us!
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
by Patrick Henry
I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry has been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free-- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending--if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained--we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us!
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
"Dirty Hands"
Oratorical Pieces
by John P. Delaney S.J.
I’m proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knobby and calloused. And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses. I didn’t get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls.
I got them that way by working with them, and I’m proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn’t I feel proud od the work they do – these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truckdrivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.
Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair. I’m proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane. His weren’t pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were workingman’s hands – strong, capable proud hands. And weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got through them. They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.
They weren’t pretty hands then, but, O God, they were beautiful – those hands of the Savior. I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God.
And I’m proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my God!
by John P. Delaney S.J.
I’m proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knobby and calloused. And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses. I didn’t get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls.
I got them that way by working with them, and I’m proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn’t I feel proud od the work they do – these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truckdrivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.
Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair. I’m proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss such hands. Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane. His weren’t pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were workingman’s hands – strong, capable proud hands. And weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got through them. They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.
They weren’t pretty hands then, but, O God, they were beautiful – those hands of the Savior. I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God.
And I’m proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my God!
"Despair of Judas"
Oratorical Pieces
I will rest here, awhile. His face! His face! Not comely now. There is no beauty in it. It is scarred into my heart. It is burned into my soul and never will it lift from me until I die. Die? Will death quench the flames which consume me? Traitor, not endless years in hell can even pay the crime of murdering the son of God.
And last night, he dealt with me so gently. He washed my feet. He bade me to put my hand into the cup with his, while in my purse there jingled the coins which bought his blood. It was better for that man that he had never been born. Who? Who but I, who but I, I who betrayed him!
“What you do, do it quickly.” He knew, and kept my sin a secret.
“Friend, where unto have you come, Judas, Judas, do you betray the Son of God with a kiss?”
Friend! Friend! He called me his friend. The man I betrayed called me his friend. How hell must have laughed. Why did not the mountains fall on me?
Why did not the earth gape and swallow me up? Why did not the sea overwhelm me? Friend. Ha! Ha! Friend. Ha! Ha! Ha! The world will know Judas as the friend.
The world will point to Judas as a by word, and as a pledge of broken faith!
Do you think Judas you can hide from the father of your friend Jesus? Not even in hell can I escape. Not in the grave for the earth will spurn my corpse. Not in the heavens for Jesus the friend is there.
What hope for Judas? What hope for Judas? Not even in hell can I escape for he called me devil, and devils cried out: torment us not, Jesus, Judas, faithless friend, devil, one of whom it would have been better not to have been born. There is no hope for you, no hope, no hope…
I will rest here, awhile. His face! His face! Not comely now. There is no beauty in it. It is scarred into my heart. It is burned into my soul and never will it lift from me until I die. Die? Will death quench the flames which consume me? Traitor, not endless years in hell can even pay the crime of murdering the son of God.
And last night, he dealt with me so gently. He washed my feet. He bade me to put my hand into the cup with his, while in my purse there jingled the coins which bought his blood. It was better for that man that he had never been born. Who? Who but I, who but I, I who betrayed him!
“What you do, do it quickly.” He knew, and kept my sin a secret.
“Friend, where unto have you come, Judas, Judas, do you betray the Son of God with a kiss?”
Friend! Friend! He called me his friend. The man I betrayed called me his friend. How hell must have laughed. Why did not the mountains fall on me?
Why did not the earth gape and swallow me up? Why did not the sea overwhelm me? Friend. Ha! Ha! Friend. Ha! Ha! Ha! The world will know Judas as the friend.
The world will point to Judas as a by word, and as a pledge of broken faith!
Do you think Judas you can hide from the father of your friend Jesus? Not even in hell can I escape. Not in the grave for the earth will spurn my corpse. Not in the heavens for Jesus the friend is there.
What hope for Judas? What hope for Judas? Not even in hell can I escape for he called me devil, and devils cried out: torment us not, Jesus, Judas, faithless friend, devil, one of whom it would have been better not to have been born. There is no hope for you, no hope, no hope…
"Because Of What We Are, Of What We Believe"
Oratorical Pieces
For every generation, there is a destiny. For some, history decides. For this generation, the choice must be our own.
Our destiny in the midst of change will rest on the changed character of our people and on their faith.
In a land of great wealth, families must not live in hopeless poverty.
In a land rich in harvest, children must not be hungry.
In a land of healing miracles, neighbors must not suffer and die untended.
In a great land of learning and scholars, young people must be taught to read and write.
How incredible it is that in this fragile existence, we should hate and destroy one another. There are possibilities enough for all who will abandon mastery; others to pursue mastery over nature. There is world enough for all to seek their happiness in their own way.
We have discovered that every child who learns, and every man who finds work, and every sick body that is made whole – like a candle added to an altar – brightens the hope of all the faithful.
So let us reject any among us, who seek to reopen old wounds, and rekindle old hatreds. They stand in the way of a seeking nation.
Let us join reason to faith and action to experience, to transform our unity of interest into a unity of purpose. To achieve change without hatred; not without difference of opinion but without the deep and abiding divisions which scar the union for generations.
It is the excitement of becoming – always becoming, trying, probing, resting, and trying again but always gaining.
If we fail now, then we will have forgotten in abundance what we learned in hardship; that democracy rests on faith, that freedom asks more that it gives.
If we succeeded, it will not be because of what we have, but it will be because of what we are; not because of what we own, but rather because of what we believe.
For we are a nation of believers. Underneath the clamor of buildings and the rush of our day’s pursuits, we are the believers in justice and liberty and union. And in our own union we believe that every man must some day be free. And we believe in ourselves.
For this is what our country is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed bridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest that is sleeping in the unplowed ground.
Is our world gone? We say farewell, is a new world coming? We welcome it – and we will bend it to the hopes of man.
But you must look within your own hearts to the old promises and to the old dreams. They will lead you the best of all.
For every generation, there is a destiny. For some, history decides. For this generation, the choice must be our own.
Our destiny in the midst of change will rest on the changed character of our people and on their faith.
In a land of great wealth, families must not live in hopeless poverty.
In a land rich in harvest, children must not be hungry.
In a land of healing miracles, neighbors must not suffer and die untended.
In a great land of learning and scholars, young people must be taught to read and write.
How incredible it is that in this fragile existence, we should hate and destroy one another. There are possibilities enough for all who will abandon mastery; others to pursue mastery over nature. There is world enough for all to seek their happiness in their own way.
We have discovered that every child who learns, and every man who finds work, and every sick body that is made whole – like a candle added to an altar – brightens the hope of all the faithful.
So let us reject any among us, who seek to reopen old wounds, and rekindle old hatreds. They stand in the way of a seeking nation.
Let us join reason to faith and action to experience, to transform our unity of interest into a unity of purpose. To achieve change without hatred; not without difference of opinion but without the deep and abiding divisions which scar the union for generations.
It is the excitement of becoming – always becoming, trying, probing, resting, and trying again but always gaining.
If we fail now, then we will have forgotten in abundance what we learned in hardship; that democracy rests on faith, that freedom asks more that it gives.
If we succeeded, it will not be because of what we have, but it will be because of what we are; not because of what we own, but rather because of what we believe.
For we are a nation of believers. Underneath the clamor of buildings and the rush of our day’s pursuits, we are the believers in justice and liberty and union. And in our own union we believe that every man must some day be free. And we believe in ourselves.
For this is what our country is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed bridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest that is sleeping in the unplowed ground.
Is our world gone? We say farewell, is a new world coming? We welcome it – and we will bend it to the hopes of man.
But you must look within your own hearts to the old promises and to the old dreams. They will lead you the best of all.
"We Have Become Untrue to Ourselves!"
Oratorical Pieces
By Felix B. Bautista
With all the force and vigor at my command, I contend that we have relaxed our vigilance, that we have allowed ourselves to deteriorate. I contend that we have lost our pride in the Philippines, that we no longer consider it a privilege and an honor to be born a Filipino.
To the Filipino youth, nothing Filipino is good enough any more. Even their Filipino names no longer suit them. A boy named Juan does not care to be called Juanito anymore. No, he must be Johnny. A girl named Virginia would get sore if she was nicknamed Viring or Biñang. No, she must be Virgie or Ginny. Roberto has become Bobbie; Maria, Mary or Marie.
And because they have become so Americanized, because they look down on everything Filipino, they now regard with contempt all the things that our fathers and our fathers’ fathers held dear. They frown on kissing the hands of their elders, saying that it is unsanitary. They don’t care for the Angelus, saying that it is old-fashioned. They belittle the kundiman, because it is so drippingly sentinmental.
They are what they are today because their elders – their parents and their teachers – have allowed them to be such. They are incongruities because they cannot be anything else! And they cannot be anything else because their elders did not know enough, or did not care enough to fashion them and to mold them into the Filipino pattern.
This easing of the barriers that would have protected our Filipinism, this has resulted in something more serious, I refer to the de-Filipinization of our economic life.
Let us face it. Economically speaking, we Filipinos have become strangers in our own country.
And so, today, we are witnesses to the spectacle of a Philippines inhabited by Filipinos who do not act and talk like Filipinos. We are witnesses to the pathetic sight of a Philippines controlled and dominated and run by non-Filipinos.
We have become untrue to ourselves, we have become traitors to the brave Filipinos who fought and died so that liberty might live in the Philippines. We have betrayed the trust that Rizal reposed on us, we are not true to the faith that energized Bonifacio, the faith that made Gregorio del Pilar cheerfully lay down his life at Tirad Pass.
By Felix B. Bautista
With all the force and vigor at my command, I contend that we have relaxed our vigilance, that we have allowed ourselves to deteriorate. I contend that we have lost our pride in the Philippines, that we no longer consider it a privilege and an honor to be born a Filipino.
To the Filipino youth, nothing Filipino is good enough any more. Even their Filipino names no longer suit them. A boy named Juan does not care to be called Juanito anymore. No, he must be Johnny. A girl named Virginia would get sore if she was nicknamed Viring or Biñang. No, she must be Virgie or Ginny. Roberto has become Bobbie; Maria, Mary or Marie.
And because they have become so Americanized, because they look down on everything Filipino, they now regard with contempt all the things that our fathers and our fathers’ fathers held dear. They frown on kissing the hands of their elders, saying that it is unsanitary. They don’t care for the Angelus, saying that it is old-fashioned. They belittle the kundiman, because it is so drippingly sentinmental.
They are what they are today because their elders – their parents and their teachers – have allowed them to be such. They are incongruities because they cannot be anything else! And they cannot be anything else because their elders did not know enough, or did not care enough to fashion them and to mold them into the Filipino pattern.
This easing of the barriers that would have protected our Filipinism, this has resulted in something more serious, I refer to the de-Filipinization of our economic life.
Let us face it. Economically speaking, we Filipinos have become strangers in our own country.
And so, today, we are witnesses to the spectacle of a Philippines inhabited by Filipinos who do not act and talk like Filipinos. We are witnesses to the pathetic sight of a Philippines controlled and dominated and run by non-Filipinos.
We have become untrue to ourselves, we have become traitors to the brave Filipinos who fought and died so that liberty might live in the Philippines. We have betrayed the trust that Rizal reposed on us, we are not true to the faith that energized Bonifacio, the faith that made Gregorio del Pilar cheerfully lay down his life at Tirad Pass.
"Vengeance Is Not Ours, It's God's"
Oratorical Pieces
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin, and so ragged.
Why are you staring at me? With my eyes I cannot see but I know that you are all staring at me. Why are you whispering to one another? Why? Do you know my mother? Do you know my father? Did you know me five years ago? Yes, five years of bitterness have passed. I can still remember the vast happiness mother and I shared with each other. We were very happy indeed.
Suddenly, five loud knocks were heard on the door and a deep silence ensued. Did the cruel Nippon's discover our peaceful home? Mother ran to Father's side pleading. "Please, Luis, hide in the cellar, there in the cellar where they cannot find you," I pulled my father's arm but he did not move. It seemed as though his feet were glued to the floor.
The door went "bang" and before us five ugly beasts came barging in. "Are you Captain Luis Santos?" roared the ugliest of them all. "Yes," said my father. "You are under arrest," said one of the beasts. They pulled father roughly away from us. Father was not given a chance to bid us goodbye.
We followed them mile after mile. We were hungry and thirsty. We saw group of Japanese eating. Oh, how our mouths watered seeing the delicious fruits they were eating,
Then suddenly, we heard a voice call, "Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . ." we ran towards the direction of the voice, but it was too late. We saw father hanging on a tree. . . . dead. Oh, it was terrible. He had been badly beaten before he died. . . . and I cried vengeance, vengeance, vengeance! Everything went black. The next thing I knew I was nursing my poor invalid mother.
One day, we heard the church bell ringing "ding-dong, ding-dong!" It was a sign for us to find a shelter in our hide-out, but I could not leave my invalid mother, I tried to show her the way to the hide-out.
Suddenly, bombs started falling; airplanes were roaring overhead, canyons were firing from everywhere. "Boom, boom, boom, boom!" Mother was hit. Her legs were shattered into pieces. I took her gently in my arms and cried, "I'll have vengeance, vengeance!" "No, Oscar. Vengeance, it's God's," said mother.
But I cried out vengeance. I was like a pent-up volcano. "Vengeance is mine not the Lord's". "No, Oscar. Vengeance is not ours, it's God's" these were the words from my mother before she died.
Mother was dead and I was blind. Vengeance is not ours? To forgive is divine but vengeance is sweeter.
That was five years ago, five years. . . .
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin, and so ragged. Vengeance is not ours, it's God's. . . . It's. . . . God's. . It's...
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin, and so ragged.
Why are you staring at me? With my eyes I cannot see but I know that you are all staring at me. Why are you whispering to one another? Why? Do you know my mother? Do you know my father? Did you know me five years ago? Yes, five years of bitterness have passed. I can still remember the vast happiness mother and I shared with each other. We were very happy indeed.
Suddenly, five loud knocks were heard on the door and a deep silence ensued. Did the cruel Nippon's discover our peaceful home? Mother ran to Father's side pleading. "Please, Luis, hide in the cellar, there in the cellar where they cannot find you," I pulled my father's arm but he did not move. It seemed as though his feet were glued to the floor.
The door went "bang" and before us five ugly beasts came barging in. "Are you Captain Luis Santos?" roared the ugliest of them all. "Yes," said my father. "You are under arrest," said one of the beasts. They pulled father roughly away from us. Father was not given a chance to bid us goodbye.
We followed them mile after mile. We were hungry and thirsty. We saw group of Japanese eating. Oh, how our mouths watered seeing the delicious fruits they were eating,
Then suddenly, we heard a voice call, "Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . ." we ran towards the direction of the voice, but it was too late. We saw father hanging on a tree. . . . dead. Oh, it was terrible. He had been badly beaten before he died. . . . and I cried vengeance, vengeance, vengeance! Everything went black. The next thing I knew I was nursing my poor invalid mother.
One day, we heard the church bell ringing "ding-dong, ding-dong!" It was a sign for us to find a shelter in our hide-out, but I could not leave my invalid mother, I tried to show her the way to the hide-out.
Suddenly, bombs started falling; airplanes were roaring overhead, canyons were firing from everywhere. "Boom, boom, boom, boom!" Mother was hit. Her legs were shattered into pieces. I took her gently in my arms and cried, "I'll have vengeance, vengeance!" "No, Oscar. Vengeance, it's God's," said mother.
But I cried out vengeance. I was like a pent-up volcano. "Vengeance is mine not the Lord's". "No, Oscar. Vengeance is not ours, it's God's" these were the words from my mother before she died.
Mother was dead and I was blind. Vengeance is not ours? To forgive is divine but vengeance is sweeter.
That was five years ago, five years. . . .
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin, and so ragged. Vengeance is not ours, it's God's. . . . It's. . . . God's. . It's...
"Trades"
I want to be a carpenter,
To work all day long in clean wood,
Shaving it into little this slivers
Which screw up into curls behind my plane;
Pounding square, black nails into white boards,
With the claws of my hammer glistening
Like the tongue of a snake.
I want to shingle a house,
Sitting on a ridgepole, in a bright breeze.
I want to put the shingles on neatly,
Taking great care that each is directly between two others.
I want my hands to have the tang of wood;
Spruce, cedar, cypress.
I want to draw a line on a board with a flat pencil,
And then saw along that line,
With the sweet-smelling sawdust piling up in a yellow heap at my feet.
That is the life I want to be! Heigh-ho!
Sleet and shift for the slippery climb,
How they stop a fire, or tinker a tire – and pull into town on time.
The city takes, and it goes its way, and the great dark hulks reload,
While mechanics grease; and test, and check, to make them safe for the road;
Then the crates are stacked and the boxes packed and the padding placed – and then
The tailboards slam, and the trailers ram, and the great trucks roll again!
To work all day long in clean wood,
Shaving it into little this slivers
Which screw up into curls behind my plane;
Pounding square, black nails into white boards,
With the claws of my hammer glistening
Like the tongue of a snake.
I want to shingle a house,
Sitting on a ridgepole, in a bright breeze.
I want to put the shingles on neatly,
Taking great care that each is directly between two others.
I want my hands to have the tang of wood;
Spruce, cedar, cypress.
I want to draw a line on a board with a flat pencil,
And then saw along that line,
With the sweet-smelling sawdust piling up in a yellow heap at my feet.
That is the life I want to be! Heigh-ho!
Sleet and shift for the slippery climb,
How they stop a fire, or tinker a tire – and pull into town on time.
The city takes, and it goes its way, and the great dark hulks reload,
While mechanics grease; and test, and check, to make them safe for the road;
Then the crates are stacked and the boxes packed and the padding placed – and then
The tailboards slam, and the trailers ram, and the great trucks roll again!
“Their Only Son”
You’re a hell of a cow-man, you are! You, and your yaller shoes!
How would you look a-straddle of a Roman-nosed cayuse !
Where would you be in a round-up, or a mix with the
Greasers, say ?
Where is the boy I loved – the feller I sent away?
He had some style about him! He was a boy! All through !
But he went away to college – and the college has sent back you !
I should have brung you a go-cart, not a real hoss to ride !
I reckon you’re God’s rebuke for me totin’ too damn much pride.
For I was plumb proud of you- I grieved when you went away;
I couldn’t say half the things I had in my heart to say;
And-What is that thing you’re wearin’? A wrist watch! Holy cats!
And what are them white things on you? What is it you call ‘em, spats .
And why are your pants so tight? And why don’t they reach your shoes ?
Gee ! But you would play hell on the back of a wild cayuse !
And when your poor mother sees you-Climb onto your hoss and ride !
Don’t you see the town-folks lookin’ ? Come on an’ let’s get outside !
If we’d a-stayed there much longer someone would have
laughed, and then
I’d had to have started something I couldn’t undo again;
For you are my son-God help me! – and no one may laugh at you
And not have your father call him. This place we are comin’ to
Is where that there young school teacher was caught by that
Greaser band-
Oh, well, we won’t talk about that. I reckon you can’t understand
How a real he-man gets feelin’-Hold up! What is that ahead?
It’s the same band! Ridin’ for us! God! Look at ‘em ride and spread!
Your hoss hasn’t had no rider-he’s fresh as he started out!
Don’t ever take time to look when you get him turned about,
But ride him like hell to town, and get out the posse–quick.
Tell them to make the river and head off the band! I’ll stick.
My hoss couldn’t make the distance ahead of that rush no how-
And I never turned back on a Greaser! And I ain’t beginnin’ now!
When it’s safe and the fight is over, come back where I am, and by
The Greasers I’ve sent to hell you’ll see how a man can die.
Tell your mother I thought about her-And give him the spurs and ride!
Don’t you see them cut tin’ around us? Oh, God! With a he-man I’d
Go through ‘em like hell a-poppin’! Go on! Make your get-away!
What’s that you are sayin’ to me? Made up your mind to stay?
You have ? Shoot your hoss then! Shoot him! Here! Let me !
That’s the how!
That’s it, get down behind him! Now for my own hoss! Now!
What’s that you are handlin’ that way, and boldin’ so tight- my son?
That one of them automatics? I’ve beard of that kind of gun!
I wonder if you can use it-Hi-golly! You got that cuss !
I wish that your ma could see us! You bet she’d be proud of us!
I’m strong for the old six-gun, son-Sho! That went a little high!
I guess they have got your father-feels like a broken thigh-
You got that one’s hoss that time! And I got the rider – dead!
Say! We will go ridin’ bell-ward with half of that band ahead!
And if your poor ma could see us-You got ‘im! You got ‘im! She
When they have found us I reckon will be proud of her boy and me!
What’s that? We ain’t got ‘em running’? The posse! And just in time!
I reckon they’ll have to tote me; I ain’t in no shape to climb
On a hoss; but, son, ride by me, I’m proud of the way you done!
And your mother will be proud of you. The lord bas give us a son!
And if the spats you are wearin’ and the pants you have on suit you
I’m for ‘em! From bell to breakfast! And I’m for the wrist watch too !
And the boys that’s riding’ for us bas got to outfit like that,
With spats and skin-tight britches, and wrist-watch and dinky hat!
How would you look a-straddle of a Roman-nosed cayuse !
Where would you be in a round-up, or a mix with the
Greasers, say ?
Where is the boy I loved – the feller I sent away?
He had some style about him! He was a boy! All through !
But he went away to college – and the college has sent back you !
I should have brung you a go-cart, not a real hoss to ride !
I reckon you’re God’s rebuke for me totin’ too damn much pride.
For I was plumb proud of you- I grieved when you went away;
I couldn’t say half the things I had in my heart to say;
And-What is that thing you’re wearin’? A wrist watch! Holy cats!
And what are them white things on you? What is it you call ‘em, spats .
And why are your pants so tight? And why don’t they reach your shoes ?
Gee ! But you would play hell on the back of a wild cayuse !
And when your poor mother sees you-Climb onto your hoss and ride !
Don’t you see the town-folks lookin’ ? Come on an’ let’s get outside !
If we’d a-stayed there much longer someone would have
laughed, and then
I’d had to have started something I couldn’t undo again;
For you are my son-God help me! – and no one may laugh at you
And not have your father call him. This place we are comin’ to
Is where that there young school teacher was caught by that
Greaser band-
Oh, well, we won’t talk about that. I reckon you can’t understand
How a real he-man gets feelin’-Hold up! What is that ahead?
It’s the same band! Ridin’ for us! God! Look at ‘em ride and spread!
Your hoss hasn’t had no rider-he’s fresh as he started out!
Don’t ever take time to look when you get him turned about,
But ride him like hell to town, and get out the posse–quick.
Tell them to make the river and head off the band! I’ll stick.
My hoss couldn’t make the distance ahead of that rush no how-
And I never turned back on a Greaser! And I ain’t beginnin’ now!
When it’s safe and the fight is over, come back where I am, and by
The Greasers I’ve sent to hell you’ll see how a man can die.
Tell your mother I thought about her-And give him the spurs and ride!
Don’t you see them cut tin’ around us? Oh, God! With a he-man I’d
Go through ‘em like hell a-poppin’! Go on! Make your get-away!
What’s that you are sayin’ to me? Made up your mind to stay?
You have ? Shoot your hoss then! Shoot him! Here! Let me !
That’s the how!
That’s it, get down behind him! Now for my own hoss! Now!
What’s that you are handlin’ that way, and boldin’ so tight- my son?
That one of them automatics? I’ve beard of that kind of gun!
I wonder if you can use it-Hi-golly! You got that cuss !
I wish that your ma could see us! You bet she’d be proud of us!
I’m strong for the old six-gun, son-Sho! That went a little high!
I guess they have got your father-feels like a broken thigh-
You got that one’s hoss that time! And I got the rider – dead!
Say! We will go ridin’ bell-ward with half of that band ahead!
And if your poor ma could see us-You got ‘im! You got ‘im! She
When they have found us I reckon will be proud of her boy and me!
What’s that? We ain’t got ‘em running’? The posse! And just in time!
I reckon they’ll have to tote me; I ain’t in no shape to climb
On a hoss; but, son, ride by me, I’m proud of the way you done!
And your mother will be proud of you. The lord bas give us a son!
And if the spats you are wearin’ and the pants you have on suit you
I’m for ‘em! From bell to breakfast! And I’m for the wrist watch too !
And the boys that’s riding’ for us bas got to outfit like that,
With spats and skin-tight britches, and wrist-watch and dinky hat!
"The Two Standards "
by Horacio de la Costa, S.J.
Life is a Warfare: a warfare between two standards: the Standard of Christ and the Standard of Satan. It is a warfare older than the world, for it began with the revolt of the angels. It is a warfare wide as the world; it rages in every nation, every city, in the heart of every man. Satan desires all men to come under his Standard, and to this end lures them with riches, honors, power, all that ministers to the lust and pride of man. Christ on the contrary, invites all to fight under His Standard. But He offers no worldly allurement; only Himself. Only Jesus; only the Son of Man; born an outcast, raised in poverty, rejected as a teacher, betrayed by His friend, crucified as a criminal. And therefore His followers shall not be confounded forever; they are certain of ultimate victory; against them, the gates of Hell cannot prevail. The powers of darkness shall splinter before their splendid battalions. Battle-scarred but resplendent, they shall enter into glory with Christ, their king. Two armies, two Standards, two generals… and to every man there comes the imperious cry of command: Choose! Christ or Satan? Choose! Sanctity or Sin? Choose! Heaven or Hell? And in the choice he makes, is summed up the life of every man.
Life is a Warfare: a warfare between two standards: the Standard of Christ and the Standard of Satan. It is a warfare older than the world, for it began with the revolt of the angels. It is a warfare wide as the world; it rages in every nation, every city, in the heart of every man. Satan desires all men to come under his Standard, and to this end lures them with riches, honors, power, all that ministers to the lust and pride of man. Christ on the contrary, invites all to fight under His Standard. But He offers no worldly allurement; only Himself. Only Jesus; only the Son of Man; born an outcast, raised in poverty, rejected as a teacher, betrayed by His friend, crucified as a criminal. And therefore His followers shall not be confounded forever; they are certain of ultimate victory; against them, the gates of Hell cannot prevail. The powers of darkness shall splinter before their splendid battalions. Battle-scarred but resplendent, they shall enter into glory with Christ, their king. Two armies, two Standards, two generals… and to every man there comes the imperious cry of command: Choose! Christ or Satan? Choose! Sanctity or Sin? Choose! Heaven or Hell? And in the choice he makes, is summed up the life of every man.
"The Spider and the Fly"
“Will you walk into my parlor?”
Said the spider to the fly.”
‘This the prettiest little parlor
That you ever spy.
“The way into my parlor
Is up at a winding stair
And I have many curious things
To show when you are there.”
“Oh, no, no!” said the fly
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair.
Can never come down again .”
“Sweet creature,” said the spider.
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings;
How brilliant are your eyes!”
“I have a little looking glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself”
“I thank you, gentle, sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now,
I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned round about,
And went into his den
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again.
So he wove a subtle thread
In a little concern sly
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went upon to his door again
And mercily did sing
“Come hither, hither pretty fly,
With the pearl and silver wings.
Your robes are green and purple
There’s a crest upon your head
Your eyes are like the diamond bright
But mine as dull as lead.”
Alas! Alas! How very soon
This silly little fly
Hearing his wily, flattering words
Came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings he hung aloft
Then near and nearer drew –
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes
And the green and purple hue.
Thinking only of her crested head –
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair.
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor –
And the fly never came out again!
Said the spider to the fly.”
‘This the prettiest little parlor
That you ever spy.
“The way into my parlor
Is up at a winding stair
And I have many curious things
To show when you are there.”
“Oh, no, no!” said the fly
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair.
Can never come down again .”
“Sweet creature,” said the spider.
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings;
How brilliant are your eyes!”
“I have a little looking glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself”
“I thank you, gentle, sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now,
I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned round about,
And went into his den
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again.
So he wove a subtle thread
In a little concern sly
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went upon to his door again
And mercily did sing
“Come hither, hither pretty fly,
With the pearl and silver wings.
Your robes are green and purple
There’s a crest upon your head
Your eyes are like the diamond bright
But mine as dull as lead.”
Alas! Alas! How very soon
This silly little fly
Hearing his wily, flattering words
Came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings he hung aloft
Then near and nearer drew –
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes
And the green and purple hue.
Thinking only of her crested head –
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair.
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor –
And the fly never came out again!
“The Song of the Shirt”
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread–
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter’d roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread–
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter’d roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
“The Rich Man and the Poor Man”
Oratorical Piece
“Food and money I give to you,
Why do you shout so mercily
When I give you your part?”
queried the rich man.
The poor man replied:
“Your question you cannot answer
For from pain and agony you are free,
But I have suffered and borne
The situation that I don’t like to be in.”
“That I couldn’t understand
Because Life for me is easy;
I take this and take that,
And life is just what I want it to be.”
consented the rich man.
“Comfort your mind, rich man,
with realities of death.
Your wealth I do not envy
For you can not buy
eternity with money.
If to live happily
is to live in hypocrisy,
Then I prefer to be silly
so I would be holy.
Life you love so much you will lose
And only then will you understand
What agony is,” the poor man shouted.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! You say so
For you desire this place of mine.
Indulgence you have clouded with reason
But I understand because of your situation.”
boastfully the rich man said.
Outraged the poor man answered:
“How pitiful the person blinded with pleasure;
No, you don’t care of our journey
That you have created through your greediness.
Come now, man of weak soul!
Your days are numbered for you to face
The Man of Love.
You may not cry now but later you will
When the chilling reality of the last judgment
Comes across your way;
Yes, then you will pity, but not for me.
Not for anybody else.
But for yourself only!
Yes, eat, drink, and be merry.
For tomorrow you shall die!
“Food and money I give to you,
Why do you shout so mercily
When I give you your part?”
queried the rich man.
The poor man replied:
“Your question you cannot answer
For from pain and agony you are free,
But I have suffered and borne
The situation that I don’t like to be in.”
“That I couldn’t understand
Because Life for me is easy;
I take this and take that,
And life is just what I want it to be.”
consented the rich man.
“Comfort your mind, rich man,
with realities of death.
Your wealth I do not envy
For you can not buy
eternity with money.
If to live happily
is to live in hypocrisy,
Then I prefer to be silly
so I would be holy.
Life you love so much you will lose
And only then will you understand
What agony is,” the poor man shouted.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! You say so
For you desire this place of mine.
Indulgence you have clouded with reason
But I understand because of your situation.”
boastfully the rich man said.
Outraged the poor man answered:
“How pitiful the person blinded with pleasure;
No, you don’t care of our journey
That you have created through your greediness.
Come now, man of weak soul!
Your days are numbered for you to face
The Man of Love.
You may not cry now but later you will
When the chilling reality of the last judgment
Comes across your way;
Yes, then you will pity, but not for me.
Not for anybody else.
But for yourself only!
Yes, eat, drink, and be merry.
For tomorrow you shall die!
"The Oak And The Reed"
Oratorical Piece
The oak one day address the reed:
“To you ungenerous indeed
Has nature been, my humble friend,
With weakness aye obliged to bend.
The smallest bird that flits in air
Is quite too much for you to bear;
The slightest wind that wreathes the lake
Your ever-trembling head does shake.
The while, my towering form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,
And wrestle with the storm.
What seems to you the blast of death,
To me is but a zephyr’s breath.
Beneath my branches head you grown.
That spread for round their friendly bower,
Less suffering would your life have known,
Defended from the tempest’s power.
Unhappily you oftenest show
In open air your slender form,
Along the marches wet and low,
That fringe the kingdom of the storm.
To you, declare I must,
Dame Nature seems unjust.”
Then modesty replied the reed:
“Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
But wholly needless for my sake.
The wildest wind that ever blew
Is safe to me compared with you
I bend, indeed, but never break.
Thus far, I own the hurricane
Has beat your sturdy back in vain,
But wait the end.”
Just as the word –
The tempest’s hollow voice was heard.
The North sent forth her fiercest child,
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.
The oak, erect, endured the blow;
The reed bowed gracefully and low,
But, gathering up its strength once more
In greater fury than before,
The savage blast
Overthrew, at last,
That proud, old sky-encircled head,
Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead!
The oak one day address the reed:
“To you ungenerous indeed
Has nature been, my humble friend,
With weakness aye obliged to bend.
The smallest bird that flits in air
Is quite too much for you to bear;
The slightest wind that wreathes the lake
Your ever-trembling head does shake.
The while, my towering form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,
And wrestle with the storm.
What seems to you the blast of death,
To me is but a zephyr’s breath.
Beneath my branches head you grown.
That spread for round their friendly bower,
Less suffering would your life have known,
Defended from the tempest’s power.
Unhappily you oftenest show
In open air your slender form,
Along the marches wet and low,
That fringe the kingdom of the storm.
To you, declare I must,
Dame Nature seems unjust.”
Then modesty replied the reed:
“Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
But wholly needless for my sake.
The wildest wind that ever blew
Is safe to me compared with you
I bend, indeed, but never break.
Thus far, I own the hurricane
Has beat your sturdy back in vain,
But wait the end.”
Just as the word –
The tempest’s hollow voice was heard.
The North sent forth her fiercest child,
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.
The oak, erect, endured the blow;
The reed bowed gracefully and low,
But, gathering up its strength once more
In greater fury than before,
The savage blast
Overthrew, at last,
That proud, old sky-encircled head,
Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead!
“The Face Upon the Floor”
‘Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories Came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, or rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, sic ‘em, if your stomach’s equal to the work–
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk."
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho’ he thought he’d struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd–
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
"Give me a drink–that’s what I want… I’m out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.
"There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely, God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.
"I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
Say! Give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do…
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.
"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame–
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers… there, that’s the scheme… and corking whiskey, too.
Well, here’s luck, boys and landlord… my best regards to you.
"You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you true
How I came to be the dirty sot, you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
And but for a blunder ought to have made, considerable wealth.
"I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.
"I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the ‘Chase of Fame’.
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,
And then I met a woman… now comes the funny part–
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.
"Why don’t you laugh? ’tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.
"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories Came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, or rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, sic ‘em, if your stomach’s equal to the work–
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk."
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho’ he thought he’d struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd–
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
"Give me a drink–that’s what I want… I’m out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.
"There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely, God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.
"I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
Say! Give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do…
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.
"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame–
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers… there, that’s the scheme… and corking whiskey, too.
Well, here’s luck, boys and landlord… my best regards to you.
"You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you true
How I came to be the dirty sot, you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
And but for a blunder ought to have made, considerable wealth.
"I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.
"I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the ‘Chase of Fame’.
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,
And then I met a woman… now comes the funny part–
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.
"Why don’t you laugh? ’tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.
"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
"The Erl-King"
Oh who rides by night through the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child;
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast and to keep himself warm.
“Oh Father, see yonder! See yonder!” he says;
“My boy, upon what do you fearfully gaze?”
“Oh, it is the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.”
“No, my son, it it but a dark wreath of the cloud.”
“Oh come and go with me, you lovely child;
By many a gay sport shall your time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for you full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.”
“Oh Father, my Father, and did you not hear
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?”
“Be still, my heart’s darling – my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sang through the trees.”
“Oh, will you go with me, you lovely boy?
My daughter shall tend you with care and with joy;
Shall bear you so lightly through wet and through wild,
And press you, and kiss you, and sing to my child.”
“Oh Father, my Father, and saw you not plain
The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?”
“Oh yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It as the gray willow that danced to the moon.”
“Oh come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag you away.”
“Oh Father, Oh Father! Now, now, keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me – his grasp is so cold.”
Sore trembled the father; he spurred thro’ the wild,
Clasping to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reached his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasped to his bosom, the infant was dead!
It is the fond father embracing his child;
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast and to keep himself warm.
“Oh Father, see yonder! See yonder!” he says;
“My boy, upon what do you fearfully gaze?”
“Oh, it is the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.”
“No, my son, it it but a dark wreath of the cloud.”
“Oh come and go with me, you lovely child;
By many a gay sport shall your time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for you full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.”
“Oh Father, my Father, and did you not hear
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?”
“Be still, my heart’s darling – my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sang through the trees.”
“Oh, will you go with me, you lovely boy?
My daughter shall tend you with care and with joy;
Shall bear you so lightly through wet and through wild,
And press you, and kiss you, and sing to my child.”
“Oh Father, my Father, and saw you not plain
The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?”
“Oh yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It as the gray willow that danced to the moon.”
“Oh come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag you away.”
“Oh Father, Oh Father! Now, now, keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me – his grasp is so cold.”
Sore trembled the father; he spurred thro’ the wild,
Clasping to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reached his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasped to his bosom, the infant was dead!
"The Death Penalty"
Oratorical Piece
Elocution means “an expert manner of speaking involving control of voice and gesture”
Gentlemen of the Jury, if there is a culprit here, it is not my son, … it is myself, … it is I! I, who for these twenty-five years have opposed capital punishment, … have contented for the inviolability of human life, … have committed this crime for which my son is now arraigned. Here I denounce myself, Mr. Advocate General! I have committed it under all aggravated circumstances – deliberately, repeatedly, and tenaciously. Yes, this old and absurd “lextalionix” – this law of blood for blood – I have combated all my life – all my life, Gentlemen of the Jury! And while I have breath, I will continue to combat it, by all my efforts as a writer, by all my words and all my votes as a legislator! I declare it before the crucifix; before that victim of the penalty of death, who sees and hears us; before that gibbet, to which, two thousand years ago, for the eternal instruction of the generations the human law nailed the Divine!
In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment and for writing and publishing that for which he is now on trial, — in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him.
Gentlemen, Jurors, the right to criticize a law, and to criticize it severely – especially a penal – is placed beside the duty of amelioration, like the torch beside the work under the artisan’s hand. The right of the journalist is a sacred, as necessary, as the right of the legislator.
What are the circumstances? A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he finds the scaffold! He shudders. He struggles. He refuses to die. The victim clings to the scaffold, and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn, … his shoulders bloody… still he resists. They drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading… howling for life… calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother, … For like a very child had this man become in the prospect of death — they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on the scaffold, and his head falls!
And then through every conscience runs a shoulder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable. All feel jointly implicated in the deed… it is at this very moment that from a young man’s breast escapes a cry, wrung from his very heart… a cry of pity and anguish… a cry of horror… a cry of humanity. And this cry would punish! And in the face of the appalling facts which I have narrated, you would say to the guillotine, “Thou art right!” and to Pity, saintly Pity, “Thou art wrong!”
Gentlemen of the Jury, it cannot be! Gentlemen, I have finished.
Elocution means “an expert manner of speaking involving control of voice and gesture”
Gentlemen of the Jury, if there is a culprit here, it is not my son, … it is myself, … it is I! I, who for these twenty-five years have opposed capital punishment, … have contented for the inviolability of human life, … have committed this crime for which my son is now arraigned. Here I denounce myself, Mr. Advocate General! I have committed it under all aggravated circumstances – deliberately, repeatedly, and tenaciously. Yes, this old and absurd “lextalionix” – this law of blood for blood – I have combated all my life – all my life, Gentlemen of the Jury! And while I have breath, I will continue to combat it, by all my efforts as a writer, by all my words and all my votes as a legislator! I declare it before the crucifix; before that victim of the penalty of death, who sees and hears us; before that gibbet, to which, two thousand years ago, for the eternal instruction of the generations the human law nailed the Divine!
In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment and for writing and publishing that for which he is now on trial, — in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him.
Gentlemen, Jurors, the right to criticize a law, and to criticize it severely – especially a penal – is placed beside the duty of amelioration, like the torch beside the work under the artisan’s hand. The right of the journalist is a sacred, as necessary, as the right of the legislator.
What are the circumstances? A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he finds the scaffold! He shudders. He struggles. He refuses to die. The victim clings to the scaffold, and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn, … his shoulders bloody… still he resists. They drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading… howling for life… calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother, … For like a very child had this man become in the prospect of death — they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on the scaffold, and his head falls!
And then through every conscience runs a shoulder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable. All feel jointly implicated in the deed… it is at this very moment that from a young man’s breast escapes a cry, wrung from his very heart… a cry of pity and anguish… a cry of horror… a cry of humanity. And this cry would punish! And in the face of the appalling facts which I have narrated, you would say to the guillotine, “Thou art right!” and to Pity, saintly Pity, “Thou art wrong!”
Gentlemen of the Jury, it cannot be! Gentlemen, I have finished.
“The Collar”
Oratorical Piece
struck the board, and cried, no more.
I will abroad.
What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not.
Forsake thy cage, thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed,
I will abroad.
Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, child:
And I replied, my Lord.
struck the board, and cried, no more.
I will abroad.
What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not.
Forsake thy cage, thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed,
I will abroad.
Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, child:
And I replied, my Lord.
"The City In The Sea"
Oratorical Piece
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good, the bad, and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
Resemble nothing that is ours
Around, by lifting winds forgot
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free –
Up domes – up spires – up kingly halls –
Up fanes – up Babylon – like walls –
Up shadowy long – forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers –
Up many and many marvelous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadow there
That seem pendulous in the air
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves:
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye –
Not the gaily-jeweled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed:
For no ripple curl, alas!
Along the wilderness of glass –
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea –
No heaving hints that winds have been
No seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave – there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide –
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow –
The hours are breathing faint and low –
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good, the bad, and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
Resemble nothing that is ours
Around, by lifting winds forgot
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free –
Up domes – up spires – up kingly halls –
Up fanes – up Babylon – like walls –
Up shadowy long – forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers –
Up many and many marvelous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadow there
That seem pendulous in the air
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves:
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye –
Not the gaily-jeweled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed:
For no ripple curl, alas!
Along the wilderness of glass –
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea –
No heaving hints that winds have been
No seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave – there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide –
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow –
The hours are breathing faint and low –
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
"The Charcoal-Burner’s Son"
Oratorical Piece
Best Piece for Elocution Contest!
My father he’s at the kiln away.
My mother sits at her spinning;
But wait, I’ll too be a man someday,
And a sweetheart I’ll be winning.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
At dawn I am up and off with the sun –
Hurrah! When the sun’s a-shimmer,
To father then with his food with me,
And long mountain shadows are thrown there.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
Tralala! As glad as a bird in flight
I’ll sing as the path I follow.
But harsh the reply from the mountain high,
And the woods are heavy and hollow.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
The shadows come down so thick, so thick,
As if curtains were drawn together,
There’s rustle and rattle of stone and stick,
And trolls are walking the heather,
So dark it is far off in the forest.
There’s one! There are two! In their net they’ll take
Me, alas! – how the fires are waving!
They beckon, O God, do not forsake me!
By flight my life I’d be saving,
So dark it is far off in the forest.
The hours went by, the daylight was gone,
The way it grew ever more wild now,
There’s whispering and rustling over stick and over stone
As over the heath runs the child now.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
With rosy-red cheeks and heart beating fast,
To his father’s kiln swiftly fleeing, he fell.
“My dear son, oh, welcome at last!”
Tis trolls, aye, and worse I’ve been seeing.
So dark it is far off in the forest.”
“My son, it is long here I’ve had to dwell,
But my God has preserved me from evil.
Whoever knows his Our Father well
Fears neither for troll nor for devil,
Though dark it is far off in the forest.”
Best Piece for Elocution Contest!
My father he’s at the kiln away.
My mother sits at her spinning;
But wait, I’ll too be a man someday,
And a sweetheart I’ll be winning.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
At dawn I am up and off with the sun –
Hurrah! When the sun’s a-shimmer,
To father then with his food with me,
And long mountain shadows are thrown there.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
Tralala! As glad as a bird in flight
I’ll sing as the path I follow.
But harsh the reply from the mountain high,
And the woods are heavy and hollow.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
The shadows come down so thick, so thick,
As if curtains were drawn together,
There’s rustle and rattle of stone and stick,
And trolls are walking the heather,
So dark it is far off in the forest.
There’s one! There are two! In their net they’ll take
Me, alas! – how the fires are waving!
They beckon, O God, do not forsake me!
By flight my life I’d be saving,
So dark it is far off in the forest.
The hours went by, the daylight was gone,
The way it grew ever more wild now,
There’s whispering and rustling over stick and over stone
As over the heath runs the child now.
So dark it is far off in the forest.
With rosy-red cheeks and heart beating fast,
To his father’s kiln swiftly fleeing, he fell.
“My dear son, oh, welcome at last!”
Tis trolls, aye, and worse I’ve been seeing.
So dark it is far off in the forest.”
“My son, it is long here I’ve had to dwell,
But my God has preserved me from evil.
Whoever knows his Our Father well
Fears neither for troll nor for devil,
Though dark it is far off in the forest.”
“The Champion”
Oratorical Piece
In the vast expanse of a timeless place
Where Silence ruled the outer space
Ominously towering it stood
The symbol of a spirit war
Between the one named Lucifer, and the Morningstar, the ultimate of good.
Enveloped by a trillion planets
Clean as lightning, and hard as granite
A cosmic coliseum would host the end,
Of the war between the lord of sin and death
And the omnipotent creator of man’s first breath
Who will decide, who forever will be…..
The audience for the fight of the ages was assembled and in place.
The angels came in splendor from a star.
The saints that had gone before were there, Jeremiah, Enoch, Job.
They were singing the song of Zion on David’s harp.
The demons arived, offensive and vile, cursing and blaspheming God
Followed by their trophies dead and gone.
Hitler, Napoleon, Pharoh, Capone, tormented, vexed, and grieved
And waiting for their judgment from the throne.
Then a chill swept through the mammoth crowd
And the demons squealed with glee
As a sorid, vulgar, repulsive essence was felt.
Arrogantly prancing, hands held high, draped in a sparkling shroud,
Trolled by demons, Satan ascended from Hell.
Then Satan cringed, the sinners groaned, the demons reeled in pain
As as swell of power like silent thunder rolled.
With a surge of light beyond intense illuminating the universe,
In resplendent glory appeared the Son of God.
Then a persona, yes, extraordinaire appeared in center ring.
God the Father will oversee the duel.
Opening the Book of Life, each grand stand hushed in awe
As majestically he said, “Now, here’s the rules:
He’ll be wounded for their transgressions, bruised for iniquities.”
When he said, “By His stripes they’re healed,” the devil shook.
He said, “Sickness is my specialty – I hate that healing junk.”
God said, “You shut your face – I wrote the book.”
Then the Father looked at His only son and said,
“You know the rules. Your blood will cleanse their sin and calm their fears.”
Then he pointed His finger at Satan and said,
“And I know you know the rules,
You’ve been twisting them to deceive my people for years.”
Satan cried, “I’ll kill you Christ! You will never win this fight.”
The demons wheezed, “That’s right, there ain’t no way.”
Satan jeered, “You’re dead meat Jesus, I’m gonna bust you up tonight.”
Jesus said, “Go ahead, make my day!”
The bell, the crowd, the fight was on, and the Devil leaped in fury.
With all his evil tricks he came undone.
He threw his jabs of hate and lust, a stab of pride and envy,
But the hands that knew no sin blocked every one.
Forty days and nights they fought and Satan couldn’t touch Him.
Now the final blow saved for the final round.
Prophetically Christ’s hands came down and Satan struck in vengeance.
The blow of death fell Jesus to the ground.
The devils roared in victory, the saints shocked and perplexed
As wounds appeared upon His hands and feet.
The Satan kicked Him in His side and blood and water flowed
And they waited for the ten count of defeat.
God the Father turned His head. His tears announcing Christ was dead.
The ten count would proclaim the battle’s end.
The Satan trembled through his sweat in unexpected horror yet,
As God started the count by saying, “…10…”
Hey wait a minute God,
“…9…”
Stop, you’re counting wrong,
“…8…”
His eyes are moving…
“…7…”
His fingers are twitching…
“…6…”
Where’s all this light coming from…
“…5…”
He’s alive
“…4…”
Oh no…
“…3…2…”
Oh yes
He has won!
He has won!
He’s alive forevermore, He is risen, He is Lord.
He has won!
He has won!
He’s alive forevermore, He has risen, He is Lord.
Proclaim the news in every tongue, through endless ages and beyond.
Let it be voiced from mountains loud and strong,
Captivity has been set free, salvation bought for you and me,
Cause Satan is defeated and Jesus is THE CHAMPION!
In the vast expanse of a timeless place
Where Silence ruled the outer space
Ominously towering it stood
The symbol of a spirit war
Between the one named Lucifer, and the Morningstar, the ultimate of good.
Enveloped by a trillion planets
Clean as lightning, and hard as granite
A cosmic coliseum would host the end,
Of the war between the lord of sin and death
And the omnipotent creator of man’s first breath
Who will decide, who forever will be…..
The audience for the fight of the ages was assembled and in place.
The angels came in splendor from a star.
The saints that had gone before were there, Jeremiah, Enoch, Job.
They were singing the song of Zion on David’s harp.
The demons arived, offensive and vile, cursing and blaspheming God
Followed by their trophies dead and gone.
Hitler, Napoleon, Pharoh, Capone, tormented, vexed, and grieved
And waiting for their judgment from the throne.
Then a chill swept through the mammoth crowd
And the demons squealed with glee
As a sorid, vulgar, repulsive essence was felt.
Arrogantly prancing, hands held high, draped in a sparkling shroud,
Trolled by demons, Satan ascended from Hell.
Then Satan cringed, the sinners groaned, the demons reeled in pain
As as swell of power like silent thunder rolled.
With a surge of light beyond intense illuminating the universe,
In resplendent glory appeared the Son of God.
Then a persona, yes, extraordinaire appeared in center ring.
God the Father will oversee the duel.
Opening the Book of Life, each grand stand hushed in awe
As majestically he said, “Now, here’s the rules:
He’ll be wounded for their transgressions, bruised for iniquities.”
When he said, “By His stripes they’re healed,” the devil shook.
He said, “Sickness is my specialty – I hate that healing junk.”
God said, “You shut your face – I wrote the book.”
Then the Father looked at His only son and said,
“You know the rules. Your blood will cleanse their sin and calm their fears.”
Then he pointed His finger at Satan and said,
“And I know you know the rules,
You’ve been twisting them to deceive my people for years.”
Satan cried, “I’ll kill you Christ! You will never win this fight.”
The demons wheezed, “That’s right, there ain’t no way.”
Satan jeered, “You’re dead meat Jesus, I’m gonna bust you up tonight.”
Jesus said, “Go ahead, make my day!”
The bell, the crowd, the fight was on, and the Devil leaped in fury.
With all his evil tricks he came undone.
He threw his jabs of hate and lust, a stab of pride and envy,
But the hands that knew no sin blocked every one.
Forty days and nights they fought and Satan couldn’t touch Him.
Now the final blow saved for the final round.
Prophetically Christ’s hands came down and Satan struck in vengeance.
The blow of death fell Jesus to the ground.
The devils roared in victory, the saints shocked and perplexed
As wounds appeared upon His hands and feet.
The Satan kicked Him in His side and blood and water flowed
And they waited for the ten count of defeat.
God the Father turned His head. His tears announcing Christ was dead.
The ten count would proclaim the battle’s end.
The Satan trembled through his sweat in unexpected horror yet,
As God started the count by saying, “…10…”
Hey wait a minute God,
“…9…”
Stop, you’re counting wrong,
“…8…”
His eyes are moving…
“…7…”
His fingers are twitching…
“…6…”
Where’s all this light coming from…
“…5…”
He’s alive
“…4…”
Oh no…
“…3…2…”
Oh yes
He has won!
He has won!
He’s alive forevermore, He is risen, He is Lord.
He has won!
He has won!
He’s alive forevermore, He has risen, He is Lord.
Proclaim the news in every tongue, through endless ages and beyond.
Let it be voiced from mountains loud and strong,
Captivity has been set free, salvation bought for you and me,
Cause Satan is defeated and Jesus is THE CHAMPION!
“Taken For Granted”
Oratorical Piece
“Christians? Christians?”
Have you heard that call? They’re looking for me. That’s definitely me. You’re in doubt and Why? You want me to give you proofs? Oh! That’s very easy.
Who told you to doubt that I am a Christian?
I am a Christian! How?
I went to church. I pray. I have my religion. I read the Bible. I love kids and I am giving them what they want. I sing gospel songs. Now you’re telling me that you are in doubt?
How dare you to question me?
Can’t you see? Or Are you blind? I am the true definition of a Christian. You’re so pathetic; you don’t have the right to question me that way.
What?! You want to ask me more?!… I’ll think about it for a second. Hmhm… Ok! I’m sure I’ll be able to answer all your questions fluently. Go… Ask me….
You’re asking me if I go to church every Sunday?! I told you… I GO TO CHURCH… ahmm b-bu-but not every Sunday. Every other Sunday I guess that’s fine with the Lord.
Why?! I-I-I have a project every other Sunday. Yes r-r-right, I have a project. The Lord understands that.
Liar?! I’m not a liar. I’m telling you the truth in fact I went to church last three Sundays straight and Oh my Gosh Cris is in the stage he’s starting to play the guitar.
Ooops I slip!
Ok fine. I went to church three times straight without absent b-because of Cris. He’s cute, he’s talented. And I’m still there for the Lord.
Liar? I’m not a liar. I am still a Christian. It so happen that I don’t have any projects that Sunday.
Ahhh! Fake?! I’m not a fake Christian; at least I go to church.
Don’t shout! Ahhh! I said I’m not a fake Christian, I-I-I pray… every other day. At least I pray.
No! I said I am a true Christian I read the Bible. I open it… Every time the Pastor is telling me to do so.
Ok stop. Why do we need to argue? I guess I really don’t know what Christianity is?
Ok! I go to church not because of Christ but because of Chris! I’m sleeping every time there is a sermon because I only love the music. I don’t read my Bible because I guess that’s boring. I sing… “Jesus, I surrender I draw nearer, I fall down” but the truth I’m not sincere with that. But I guess my works will be credited in his name. I share my blessings to the poor, i give gifts every Sunday and I have a religion I guess that works…I don’t know.
Right, Ephesians 2: 8-9 was right. It is not by works that I will be saved because Jesus is the only way. And I am so wrong I don’t even mind his sacrifices on the cross. I am supposed to be there because those are my sins. I forgot my purpose here on earth; you know what, he’s been good to me. But I always take him for granted. I’m doing things not for his glory but for my own. I should live for him because he died for me. I’m so ashamed now. But Lord you still forgave me. You’re so good. And you brought me to my knees.
Now I’m talking and standing in front of you and I don’t care if you are going to laugh at me. I care to tell you things that I believe I must tell you. He won everything in me and he’s been waiting for you too… If you believe you have him, you may now shout what Carman once wrote “Jesus is the Champion”.
“Christians? Christians?”
Have you heard that call? They’re looking for me. That’s definitely me. You’re in doubt and Why? You want me to give you proofs? Oh! That’s very easy.
Who told you to doubt that I am a Christian?
I am a Christian! How?
I went to church. I pray. I have my religion. I read the Bible. I love kids and I am giving them what they want. I sing gospel songs. Now you’re telling me that you are in doubt?
How dare you to question me?
Can’t you see? Or Are you blind? I am the true definition of a Christian. You’re so pathetic; you don’t have the right to question me that way.
What?! You want to ask me more?!… I’ll think about it for a second. Hmhm… Ok! I’m sure I’ll be able to answer all your questions fluently. Go… Ask me….
You’re asking me if I go to church every Sunday?! I told you… I GO TO CHURCH… ahmm b-bu-but not every Sunday. Every other Sunday I guess that’s fine with the Lord.
Why?! I-I-I have a project every other Sunday. Yes r-r-right, I have a project. The Lord understands that.
Liar?! I’m not a liar. I’m telling you the truth in fact I went to church last three Sundays straight and Oh my Gosh Cris is in the stage he’s starting to play the guitar.
Ooops I slip!
Ok fine. I went to church three times straight without absent b-because of Cris. He’s cute, he’s talented. And I’m still there for the Lord.
Liar? I’m not a liar. I am still a Christian. It so happen that I don’t have any projects that Sunday.
Ahhh! Fake?! I’m not a fake Christian; at least I go to church.
Don’t shout! Ahhh! I said I’m not a fake Christian, I-I-I pray… every other day. At least I pray.
No! I said I am a true Christian I read the Bible. I open it… Every time the Pastor is telling me to do so.
Ok stop. Why do we need to argue? I guess I really don’t know what Christianity is?
Ok! I go to church not because of Christ but because of Chris! I’m sleeping every time there is a sermon because I only love the music. I don’t read my Bible because I guess that’s boring. I sing… “Jesus, I surrender I draw nearer, I fall down” but the truth I’m not sincere with that. But I guess my works will be credited in his name. I share my blessings to the poor, i give gifts every Sunday and I have a religion I guess that works…I don’t know.
Right, Ephesians 2: 8-9 was right. It is not by works that I will be saved because Jesus is the only way. And I am so wrong I don’t even mind his sacrifices on the cross. I am supposed to be there because those are my sins. I forgot my purpose here on earth; you know what, he’s been good to me. But I always take him for granted. I’m doing things not for his glory but for my own. I should live for him because he died for me. I’m so ashamed now. But Lord you still forgave me. You’re so good. And you brought me to my knees.
Now I’m talking and standing in front of you and I don’t care if you are going to laugh at me. I care to tell you things that I believe I must tell you. He won everything in me and he’s been waiting for you too… If you believe you have him, you may now shout what Carman once wrote “Jesus is the Champion”.
"Poor Boy"
Oratorical Piece
By Mary Ann Villanueva Oppus
Look at me!!! I am part of the masses... the facet of society many so often push around... Why can't they ever stop to think... that, I am human too... that I, too, feel like them... Why can't you answer me??? You must have something in mind... Why can't you answer me??? I know you must have something in mind... Where is their sense of morality??? They trampled upon me as if I was trash... I never did them any wrong!!! Was it a sin I committed when I came to this world as a poor boy??? A poor boy... yes that's what I am... A state of being I didn't even choose at the first place. Was it a sin I committed, to be born like this?? Now tell me!!! Did you ever have the right to choose your status in life when you were born??? Think!!! Before you condemn me... Do I ever have a choice?
I am deprived of all the chances in life... I am looked down upon by people as someone who is too dirty... too smelly... too poor... but I have a heart... Yes!!! I have a golden heart... For every coin I get out of begging helps my younger siblings to survive. The money I earn goes a long way to feed my family... How about you??? How do you feed your family??? Are you 100% sure you work decent enough to earn more??? Are you sure that the money you earned didn't come from a dirty strategy other corrupt politicians used to do to gain power? Can you honestly look at your child straight in the eye true to your heart's core and with a clear conscience?? Have you ever been aware that the money you use to feed your family is an outcome of your hard labor and decent job you can always be proud of??? WHY DID YOU SUDDENLY BECOME QUIET??? WHAT IS IN YOUR MIND NOW?? Tell me!!! Come on, tell me!!!
Huh!!! You have good clothes, you never experienced sleeping without a roof, you eat good food, you enjoy the comforts of life... But, somewhere deep in your mind, your conscience haunts you... Yes... you will never sleep good... Within your subconscious mind, your guilty conscience still haunts you, constantly reminding you about your evil ways... Wow... And you still think you are clean???
Outside, you smell fresh and clean, but deep within your soul... I know you stink... Oh... I believe that kind of smell goes through your body... Yes your soul is bound to burn in hell!!! And look at me! I am just a poor boy... honestly begging for mercy from people like you, to feed my brothers and sisters... to survive, but I never stepped down on anyone. I never stole from anyone nor did I ever use anyone to improve our lives... I can sleep good... Can you??? With a kind conscience like that, well, I don't think so. You will never sleep well... you don't have any right to sleep with a sound mind and a light heart...
By Mary Ann Villanueva Oppus
Look at me!!! I am part of the masses... the facet of society many so often push around... Why can't they ever stop to think... that, I am human too... that I, too, feel like them... Why can't you answer me??? You must have something in mind... Why can't you answer me??? I know you must have something in mind... Where is their sense of morality??? They trampled upon me as if I was trash... I never did them any wrong!!! Was it a sin I committed when I came to this world as a poor boy??? A poor boy... yes that's what I am... A state of being I didn't even choose at the first place. Was it a sin I committed, to be born like this?? Now tell me!!! Did you ever have the right to choose your status in life when you were born??? Think!!! Before you condemn me... Do I ever have a choice?
I am deprived of all the chances in life... I am looked down upon by people as someone who is too dirty... too smelly... too poor... but I have a heart... Yes!!! I have a golden heart... For every coin I get out of begging helps my younger siblings to survive. The money I earn goes a long way to feed my family... How about you??? How do you feed your family??? Are you 100% sure you work decent enough to earn more??? Are you sure that the money you earned didn't come from a dirty strategy other corrupt politicians used to do to gain power? Can you honestly look at your child straight in the eye true to your heart's core and with a clear conscience?? Have you ever been aware that the money you use to feed your family is an outcome of your hard labor and decent job you can always be proud of??? WHY DID YOU SUDDENLY BECOME QUIET??? WHAT IS IN YOUR MIND NOW?? Tell me!!! Come on, tell me!!!
Huh!!! You have good clothes, you never experienced sleeping without a roof, you eat good food, you enjoy the comforts of life... But, somewhere deep in your mind, your conscience haunts you... Yes... you will never sleep good... Within your subconscious mind, your guilty conscience still haunts you, constantly reminding you about your evil ways... Wow... And you still think you are clean???
Outside, you smell fresh and clean, but deep within your soul... I know you stink... Oh... I believe that kind of smell goes through your body... Yes your soul is bound to burn in hell!!! And look at me! I am just a poor boy... honestly begging for mercy from people like you, to feed my brothers and sisters... to survive, but I never stepped down on anyone. I never stole from anyone nor did I ever use anyone to improve our lives... I can sleep good... Can you??? With a kind conscience like that, well, I don't think so. You will never sleep well... you don't have any right to sleep with a sound mind and a light heart...
“Oh Captain My Captain”
Oratorical Piece
Oh Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But Oh heart! heart! heart!
Oh the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Oh Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult Oh shores, and ring Oh bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Oh Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But Oh heart! heart! heart!
Oh the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Oh Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult Oh shores, and ring Oh bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
"My Get Up And Go Has Got Up And Went"
Oratorical Piece
How do I know that my youth’s all spent?
Well, my get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I am able to grin
When I recall where my get up has been.
Old age is golden, so I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder, when I get into bed…
My ears in a drawer and teeth in a cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.
The sleep dims my eyes, I say to myself –
“Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?”
And I am happy to say as I close my door,
My friends are the same, perhaps even more.
When I was young, my slippers were red,
I could kick up my heels right over my head,
When I grew older my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.
Now I am old, my slippers are black.
I walk to the store and puff my way back;
The reason I know my youth is all spent,
My get up and go has got up and went.
But I really don’t mind, when I think with a grin.
Of all the grand places my get up has been.
Since I have retired from life’s competition,
I busy myself with complete repetition.
I get up each morning, dust off my wits,
Pick up my paper, and read the “Orbits”.
If my name is missing, I know I’m not dead.
So I eat a good breakfast, and go back to bed.
How do I know that my youth’s all spent?
Well, my get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I am able to grin
When I recall where my get up has been.
Old age is golden, so I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder, when I get into bed…
My ears in a drawer and teeth in a cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.
The sleep dims my eyes, I say to myself –
“Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?”
And I am happy to say as I close my door,
My friends are the same, perhaps even more.
When I was young, my slippers were red,
I could kick up my heels right over my head,
When I grew older my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.
Now I am old, my slippers are black.
I walk to the store and puff my way back;
The reason I know my youth is all spent,
My get up and go has got up and went.
But I really don’t mind, when I think with a grin.
Of all the grand places my get up has been.
Since I have retired from life’s competition,
I busy myself with complete repetition.
I get up each morning, dust off my wits,
Pick up my paper, and read the “Orbits”.
If my name is missing, I know I’m not dead.
So I eat a good breakfast, and go back to bed.
“Murderess”
Oratorical Piece
It’s already twelve o’clock. Oh, God, I’m hungry! I’ve been running and hiding for almost three days. I’m dead tired. I need some rest. But no, they are looking for me! And if they find me, I will be put to jail. But, where can I hide? Leo’s father is so influential, so powerful. He is the governor of our great province and I happened to kill his son!
No, don’t accuse me like that! I’m not a murderess! Hear me, I’m begging you, I tell you I’m not a murderess.
Audience, let me explain, please.
Okay, okay, okay! It all happened in school one day. I went to the library to find a book. Then I found it. I got so engrossed to what I was reading that I almost didn’t notice the time. It was gone past six and, oh my! I think I was the only student left in the library. To my dismay, Leo was waiting for me outside. I wanted to hide but it was too late. He was already in front of me.
“Hi, Brenda! Can I drive you home?”
I shook my head irritatingly. My God, how I hate him! He often sends me scented love letters in pink stationery which I sent back all unopened. He sends me roses and chocolates, too. They are my favorites. I wanted so much to eat the chocolates, but I hate the person who gave them. So I throw them into the trash. How could I ever get away from this guy?
“Hey, Leo, wait a minute! If you want to drive me home, thanks, but no thanks! I’m old enough to go home on my own, okay? So, please stop following me like a dog! And besides, I’m too young for love and I don’t accept any suitors, understand?”
“But, Brenda, I love you! Can’t you understand? I can give you anything you want. Say it and you’ll have it. And, Brenda, remember, I can get everything I want by hook or crook. So you’d better be good to me or else. Ha… ha… ha…!”
And he started laughing like a monster. I got so scared. I know how powerful his family was, but I still insisted, “Leo, how can you be such a jerk? I don’t like you and I don’t love you. In fact, I hate you! Now, will you leave me alone?”
But instead of leaving, do you know what he did? He pushed me so hard against the wall and started kissing me. I was shouting for help, but no, no one was there!
“Somebody, help me, please! Please, please! Help! Help!”
Then he gave me a big, big punch on my stomach. Oh my God! It was painful!
But even before he reached for me again, I spotted a rusty knife and grabbed it.
“Now, Mr. Leo Monteverde, try to kiss me again, attempt to rape me again, and I will never ever forgive you! Go to hell! Um… um… ummm!”
I didn’t know how many times I pushed the rusty knife in his body. Then I noticed something. Blood, blood… there’s a blood on my hands!
Leo, Leo…! Oh, God! I killed Leo! No, I’m not a murderess! He was going to rape me and I just defended myself. I didn’t mean to do it, I’m not a murderess! I’m not a murderess! But I killed Leo…! I killed him! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! Ha!
It’s already twelve o’clock. Oh, God, I’m hungry! I’ve been running and hiding for almost three days. I’m dead tired. I need some rest. But no, they are looking for me! And if they find me, I will be put to jail. But, where can I hide? Leo’s father is so influential, so powerful. He is the governor of our great province and I happened to kill his son!
No, don’t accuse me like that! I’m not a murderess! Hear me, I’m begging you, I tell you I’m not a murderess.
Audience, let me explain, please.
Okay, okay, okay! It all happened in school one day. I went to the library to find a book. Then I found it. I got so engrossed to what I was reading that I almost didn’t notice the time. It was gone past six and, oh my! I think I was the only student left in the library. To my dismay, Leo was waiting for me outside. I wanted to hide but it was too late. He was already in front of me.
“Hi, Brenda! Can I drive you home?”
I shook my head irritatingly. My God, how I hate him! He often sends me scented love letters in pink stationery which I sent back all unopened. He sends me roses and chocolates, too. They are my favorites. I wanted so much to eat the chocolates, but I hate the person who gave them. So I throw them into the trash. How could I ever get away from this guy?
“Hey, Leo, wait a minute! If you want to drive me home, thanks, but no thanks! I’m old enough to go home on my own, okay? So, please stop following me like a dog! And besides, I’m too young for love and I don’t accept any suitors, understand?”
“But, Brenda, I love you! Can’t you understand? I can give you anything you want. Say it and you’ll have it. And, Brenda, remember, I can get everything I want by hook or crook. So you’d better be good to me or else. Ha… ha… ha…!”
And he started laughing like a monster. I got so scared. I know how powerful his family was, but I still insisted, “Leo, how can you be such a jerk? I don’t like you and I don’t love you. In fact, I hate you! Now, will you leave me alone?”
But instead of leaving, do you know what he did? He pushed me so hard against the wall and started kissing me. I was shouting for help, but no, no one was there!
“Somebody, help me, please! Please, please! Help! Help!”
Then he gave me a big, big punch on my stomach. Oh my God! It was painful!
But even before he reached for me again, I spotted a rusty knife and grabbed it.
“Now, Mr. Leo Monteverde, try to kiss me again, attempt to rape me again, and I will never ever forgive you! Go to hell! Um… um… ummm!”
I didn’t know how many times I pushed the rusty knife in his body. Then I noticed something. Blood, blood… there’s a blood on my hands!
Leo, Leo…! Oh, God! I killed Leo! No, I’m not a murderess! He was going to rape me and I just defended myself. I didn’t mean to do it, I’m not a murderess! I’m not a murderess! But I killed Leo…! I killed him! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! Ha!
"Man Upon The Cross"
Oratorical Piece
Upon the cross against the hills of the night
They nailed the man, and while
they speared his breast they made him drink the bile.
He bore the pains alone, alone
But in the hallowed darkness saw
Sweet Mary’s face upturned in grief below.
Tears filmed her eyes, but love
chastened the tragic beauty of her face
which neither death nor sorrow could erase.
He saw and feebly in the silence strove
to speak a few remembered words:
but now the whispers left his lips
like tender birds.
His arms were cold and death
was in his eyes; the streams
of blood were dry upon the whiteness of his limbs.
His breath was like a wounded bird
wanting to stay, to stay, bereft
now Mary rose and treasuring
his sorrow, left.
Upon the cross against the hills of the night
They nailed the man, and while
they speared his breast they made him drink the bile.
He bore the pains alone, alone
But in the hallowed darkness saw
Sweet Mary’s face upturned in grief below.
Tears filmed her eyes, but love
chastened the tragic beauty of her face
which neither death nor sorrow could erase.
He saw and feebly in the silence strove
to speak a few remembered words:
but now the whispers left his lips
like tender birds.
His arms were cold and death
was in his eyes; the streams
of blood were dry upon the whiteness of his limbs.
His breath was like a wounded bird
wanting to stay, to stay, bereft
now Mary rose and treasuring
his sorrow, left.
“Lord, Make A Regular Man Out Of Me”
Oratorical Piece
This I would like to be – braver and bolder,
Just a bit wiser because I am older,
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,
Just a bit manlier taking defeat;
This for the New Year my wish and my pleas
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit finer,
More of a smiler and less of a whiner,
Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand
Helping another who’s struggling to stand,
This is my prayer for the New Year to be,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit fairer,
Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,
Not quite so ready to censure and lame,
Quicker to help everyman in the game,
Not quite so eager men’s failing to see,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit truer,
Less of the wisher and more of the doer,
Broader and bigger, more willing to give,
Living and helping my neighbor to live!
This is for the New Year my prayer and my plea
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – braver and bolder,
Just a bit wiser because I am older,
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,
Just a bit manlier taking defeat;
This for the New Year my wish and my pleas
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit finer,
More of a smiler and less of a whiner,
Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand
Helping another who’s struggling to stand,
This is my prayer for the New Year to be,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit fairer,
Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,
Not quite so ready to censure and lame,
Quicker to help everyman in the game,
Not quite so eager men’s failing to see,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be – just a bit truer,
Less of the wisher and more of the doer,
Broader and bigger, more willing to give,
Living and helping my neighbor to live!
This is for the New Year my prayer and my plea
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
"Juvenile Delinquent"
Oratorical Piece
Am I a juvenile delinquent? I'm a teenager, I'm young, young at heart in mind. In this position, I'm carefree, I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I seldom go to school, nobody cares!. But instead you can see me roaming around. Standing at the nearby canto (street). Or else standing beside a jukebox stand playing the nerve tickling bugaloo.Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me delinquent, a juvenile delinquent.
My parents ignored me, my teachers sneered at me and my friends, they neglected me. One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life. Would you care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can't you see? I had to dress up for my mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to console me, but, what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here's 500 bucks, get it and enjoy yourself, go and ask your teachers that question".
And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing me with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can't even divide 100 by 5! Go home and plant sweet potatoes".
I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But that's not what you can see in me. Here's a young girl who needs counsel to enlighten her way and guidance to strenghten her life into contentment.
Honorable judge, friends and teachers...is this the girl whom you commented a juvenile delinquent?.
Am I a juvenile delinquent? I'm a teenager, I'm young, young at heart in mind. In this position, I'm carefree, I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I seldom go to school, nobody cares!. But instead you can see me roaming around. Standing at the nearby canto (street). Or else standing beside a jukebox stand playing the nerve tickling bugaloo.Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me delinquent, a juvenile delinquent.
My parents ignored me, my teachers sneered at me and my friends, they neglected me. One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life. Would you care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can't you see? I had to dress up for my mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to console me, but, what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here's 500 bucks, get it and enjoy yourself, go and ask your teachers that question".
And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing me with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can't even divide 100 by 5! Go home and plant sweet potatoes".
I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But that's not what you can see in me. Here's a young girl who needs counsel to enlighten her way and guidance to strenghten her life into contentment.
Honorable judge, friends and teachers...is this the girl whom you commented a juvenile delinquent?.
"Jewels of the Pauper "
Oratorical Piece
by Horacio de la Costa, S.J.
There is a thought that comes to me sometimes as I sit by my window in the evening, listening to the young men’s guitars, and watching the shadows deepen on the longs hills, the hills of my native land.
You know, we are a remarkably poor people; poor not only in material goods, but even in the riches of the spirit. I doubt we can claim to possess a truly national literature. No Shakespeare, no Cervantes has yet been born among us to touch with immortality that which is in our landscape, in our customs, in our story, that which is most original, most ourselves. If we must give currency to our thoughts, we are focused to mint them in the coinage of a foreign tongue; for we do not even have a common language.
But poor as we are, we yet have something. This pauper among the nations of the earth hides two jewels in her rages. One of them is our music. We are sundered one from another by eighty-seven dialects; we are one people when we sing. The kundimans of Bulacan awaken an answering chord of lutes of Leyte. Somewhere in the rugged north, a peasant woman croons her child to sleep; and the Visayan listening remembers the crane fields of his childhood, and his mother singing the self-made song.
We are again one people when we pray. This is our other treasure; our Faith. It gives somehow, to our little uneventful days, a kind of splendor; as though they had been touched by a king. And did you ever notice how they are always mingling, our religion and our music? All the basic rite of human life – the harvest and the seedtime, the wedding, birth and death – are among us drenched with the fragrance and the coolness of music.
These are the bonds that bind us together; these are the souls that make us one. And as long as there remains in these islands one mother to sing Nena’s lullaby, one boat to put out to sea with the immemorial rowing song, one priest to stand at the altar and offer God to God, the nation may be conquered, trampled upon, enslaved, but it cannot perish. Like the sun that dies every evening it will rise again from the dead.
by Horacio de la Costa, S.J.
There is a thought that comes to me sometimes as I sit by my window in the evening, listening to the young men’s guitars, and watching the shadows deepen on the longs hills, the hills of my native land.
You know, we are a remarkably poor people; poor not only in material goods, but even in the riches of the spirit. I doubt we can claim to possess a truly national literature. No Shakespeare, no Cervantes has yet been born among us to touch with immortality that which is in our landscape, in our customs, in our story, that which is most original, most ourselves. If we must give currency to our thoughts, we are focused to mint them in the coinage of a foreign tongue; for we do not even have a common language.
But poor as we are, we yet have something. This pauper among the nations of the earth hides two jewels in her rages. One of them is our music. We are sundered one from another by eighty-seven dialects; we are one people when we sing. The kundimans of Bulacan awaken an answering chord of lutes of Leyte. Somewhere in the rugged north, a peasant woman croons her child to sleep; and the Visayan listening remembers the crane fields of his childhood, and his mother singing the self-made song.
We are again one people when we pray. This is our other treasure; our Faith. It gives somehow, to our little uneventful days, a kind of splendor; as though they had been touched by a king. And did you ever notice how they are always mingling, our religion and our music? All the basic rite of human life – the harvest and the seedtime, the wedding, birth and death – are among us drenched with the fragrance and the coolness of music.
These are the bonds that bind us together; these are the souls that make us one. And as long as there remains in these islands one mother to sing Nena’s lullaby, one boat to put out to sea with the immemorial rowing song, one priest to stand at the altar and offer God to God, the nation may be conquered, trampled upon, enslaved, but it cannot perish. Like the sun that dies every evening it will rise again from the dead.
"If…"
Oratorical Piece
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
“I Demand Death!”
Oratorical Piece
My hands are wet with blood. They are crimsoned with the blood of a man I have just killed.
I have come here today to confess. I have committed murder, deliberate, premeditated murder. I have killed a man in cold blood. That man is my master.
I am here not to ask for pity but for justice. Simple, elementary justice. I am a tenant… My father was a tenant before me and so was his father before him. This misery is my inheritance and perhaps this will be my legacy to my children.
I have labored on a patch of land not mine. But I have learned to love that land, for it is the only thing that lies between me and complete destitution.
It is the only world that I have learned to cherish. And somewhere on that land I have managed to build what is now the dilapidated nipa shack that has been home to me.
I have but a few world possessions, mostly rags. My debts are heavy. They are sum total of my ignorance and the inspired arithmetic of my master, which I do not understand.
I labor like a slave and out of the fruits of that labor I get but a mere pittance for a share. And I have to stretch that mere pittance to keep myself and my family alive.
My poverty has reduced me to the bare necessities of life. And the constant fear of rejection from the land has made me totally subservient to my master. You tell me that under the constitution, I am a free man-free to do what I believe is just, free to do what I think is right, and free to worship God according to the dictate of my conscience. But I do not understand the meaning of all these for I have never known freedom. I have always obeyed the wishes of my master out of fear. I have always regarded myself as no better than a slave to the man who owns the land on which I live. I do not ask you to forgive me nor to mitigate my crime. I have taken the law into my own hands, and I must pay for it in atonement.
But kill this system. Kill this system and you kill despotism. Kill this system and you kill slavery. Kill this despotism and you set the human soul to liberty and freedom. Kill this slavery and you release the human spirit into happiness and contentment. For the cause of human liberty, of human happiness and contentment, thousands and even millions have died and will continue to die.
Mine is only one life. Take me if you must but let it be a sacrifice to the cause which countless others have been given before and will be given again and again, until the oppressive economic system has completely perished, until the sons of toil have been liberated from enslavement, and until man has been fully restored to decency and self respect.
You tell me of the right to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But I have known no rights, only obligations; I have known no happiness; only despair in the encumbered existence that has always been my lot.
My dear friend, I am a peace-loving citizen. I have nothing but love for my fellowmen. And yet, why did I kill this man? It is because he was the symbol of an economic system which has made him and me what we are: He, a master, and I, a slave.
Out of a deliberate design I killed him because I could no longer stand this life of constant fear and being a servant. I could no longer suffer the thought of being perpetually a slave.
I committed the murder as an abject lesson. I want to blow that spelled the death of my master to be a death blow to the institution of the economic slavery which shamelessly exists in the bright sunlight of freedom that is guaranteed by the constitution to every man. My dear friend: I do anguish from the weak and helpless and has laid upon the back of the ignorant labor burdens that are too heavy to be borne, I demand death!
To this callous system of exploitation that has tightened the fetters of perpetual bondage in the hands of thousands, and has killed the spirit of freedom in the hearts of men, I demand death.
To this oppression that has denied liberty to the free and unbounded children of God, I DEMAND DEATH!
My hands are wet with blood. They are crimsoned with the blood of a man I have just killed.
I have come here today to confess. I have committed murder, deliberate, premeditated murder. I have killed a man in cold blood. That man is my master.
I am here not to ask for pity but for justice. Simple, elementary justice. I am a tenant… My father was a tenant before me and so was his father before him. This misery is my inheritance and perhaps this will be my legacy to my children.
I have labored on a patch of land not mine. But I have learned to love that land, for it is the only thing that lies between me and complete destitution.
It is the only world that I have learned to cherish. And somewhere on that land I have managed to build what is now the dilapidated nipa shack that has been home to me.
I have but a few world possessions, mostly rags. My debts are heavy. They are sum total of my ignorance and the inspired arithmetic of my master, which I do not understand.
I labor like a slave and out of the fruits of that labor I get but a mere pittance for a share. And I have to stretch that mere pittance to keep myself and my family alive.
My poverty has reduced me to the bare necessities of life. And the constant fear of rejection from the land has made me totally subservient to my master. You tell me that under the constitution, I am a free man-free to do what I believe is just, free to do what I think is right, and free to worship God according to the dictate of my conscience. But I do not understand the meaning of all these for I have never known freedom. I have always obeyed the wishes of my master out of fear. I have always regarded myself as no better than a slave to the man who owns the land on which I live. I do not ask you to forgive me nor to mitigate my crime. I have taken the law into my own hands, and I must pay for it in atonement.
But kill this system. Kill this system and you kill despotism. Kill this system and you kill slavery. Kill this despotism and you set the human soul to liberty and freedom. Kill this slavery and you release the human spirit into happiness and contentment. For the cause of human liberty, of human happiness and contentment, thousands and even millions have died and will continue to die.
Mine is only one life. Take me if you must but let it be a sacrifice to the cause which countless others have been given before and will be given again and again, until the oppressive economic system has completely perished, until the sons of toil have been liberated from enslavement, and until man has been fully restored to decency and self respect.
You tell me of the right to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But I have known no rights, only obligations; I have known no happiness; only despair in the encumbered existence that has always been my lot.
My dear friend, I am a peace-loving citizen. I have nothing but love for my fellowmen. And yet, why did I kill this man? It is because he was the symbol of an economic system which has made him and me what we are: He, a master, and I, a slave.
Out of a deliberate design I killed him because I could no longer stand this life of constant fear and being a servant. I could no longer suffer the thought of being perpetually a slave.
I committed the murder as an abject lesson. I want to blow that spelled the death of my master to be a death blow to the institution of the economic slavery which shamelessly exists in the bright sunlight of freedom that is guaranteed by the constitution to every man. My dear friend: I do anguish from the weak and helpless and has laid upon the back of the ignorant labor burdens that are too heavy to be borne, I demand death!
To this callous system of exploitation that has tightened the fetters of perpetual bondage in the hands of thousands, and has killed the spirit of freedom in the hearts of men, I demand death.
To this oppression that has denied liberty to the free and unbounded children of God, I DEMAND DEATH!
"I Am A Filipino"
Oratorical Piece
By Carlos P. Romulo
I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future. I sprung from a hardy race - child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children's forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promise a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof - the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals - the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes - seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañang Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, being apart from those world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West - only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand - a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom and my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:
Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning…Ne'er shall invaders trample thy sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:
"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.
By Carlos P. Romulo
I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future. I sprung from a hardy race - child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children's forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promise a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof - the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals - the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes - seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañang Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, being apart from those world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West - only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand - a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom and my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:
Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning…Ne'er shall invaders trample thy sacred shore.
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:
"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.
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