We will be the salt of the earth at the end of days.
Returned from dust, to dust.
Made from ash, molded by fire, and flame.
We came into this world screaming, and we will not leave quietly, not without struggle.
We will have stood tall at times, we will have crawled a time a time or two,
and our hands and feet will be calloused. Sometimes carrying each other, sometimes dragged by the little clothing we have left.

We will arrive
at the perfect time
to see him stand, with the sky on his shoulders.
And we will nod as we pass by, limping, slightly lame, and silent. He will shrug. He knows struggle greater than we ever could. A gentle smile will cross his lips, as we, among many, make our pilgrimage on.
Your arm over my shoulders, I am stooped to bear your weight, so that we may march unto the sun.

We’ve come so far,
and we’ve pushed up with all our might, out of frozen ground,
like seeds of something great.
We’ve got to keep on going,
we can’t stop.
I’ve given too much to this cause, I won’t let up.
For years we have trudged along, and for years more we will continue.
And I swear to you, I won’t let us fall.
We will press onward, until only God can stop us.
Because I will carry you, as Atlas carries the sky.