by James Ebb Huggins, Jr.
September 12, 2001
by Cornel Nistorescu
There is a place called
Hill - where all God's children
To be with Him and His - a place with much love to show.
It's located is in the minds of those - who respect what's right and wrong
And may be seen by listening to - the Angel of Truth and Justice's song.
Sometimes it's made of sand and
like many other hills.
With grass, and trees, and flowers - covering it's rocks and rills.
Where birds sing in the Dogwood Trees - and mighty eagles fly
Among the clouds high above - in Freedom's Hill's blue sky.
Sometimes it's made of blood,
and tears - and the bodies of
many good men
Who gave their all so there might be - a window to let the sweet breeze of Freedom in.
It wasn't an easy thing to do - sacrifices were required before they were through,
But they proudly gave and will give again - when freedom is denied me and you.
Sometimes the Hill is made of
from buildings that have been
By a terrorist's evil doings - acts that tears away at a freedom loving person's heart.
Shall there always be heroes to rise to the occasion - to climb to the top of the heap,
And plant the seed of freedom - for you and me to nurture and keep.
There will always be a place to
long as good men rise to the
And do the things that must be done - to preserve freedom for all,
So that birds may sing in the Dogwood trees - and eagles fly among clouds that are still,
In a home God has made for His children - a place called Freedom's Hill.
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