My blood is like the precious stones from deep within the ground.
It’s watering the world with tears in which Creation’s drowned.
The earth is crying out for me, but I can’t hear a sound.
Have I not kept my brother? Am I lost or are you found?
My blood is like the precious stones that sparkle on your face,
Like silver stars that dance within the darkened depths of space,
As bright and nigh majestic as the Lord in all His grace.
I wish I could have told you that this never was a race.
My blood is like the precious stones in cities you will build.
I see you crouching in their walls, your fields left untilled.
My brother, take my sheep with you; I’ve no need now I’m killed.
So wear their wool and think of me and with our warmth be filled.
My blood is like the precious stones on God’s high holy throne,
The One who sews our tattered skin and mends our shattered bone.
I pray He sees the you I see, the pleasing fruits you’ve grown.
I pray He will forgive me for the envy I have sown.