The Least of These

If I saw it would I care?
Tiny fingers everywhere
Sewing shirts and underwear
The ones I buy

There’s no dinner on your plate
There’s no choice, but to take
A broken back for 2 bucks a day
And a stolen life

Goodnight, children of the toil
May the sweat of your brow cool you
As you drift to sleep, do you ever think of me?
I profit by the cheap, product of your labor
You’ve fed and clothed me
You, the least of these

But we are God’s, and we are right
We ignore with narrow minds
Life’s more pleasant with clouded sight
We can’t see you cry

Goodnight, children of the toil
May the sweat of your brow cool you
As you drift to sleep, do you ever think of me?
I profit by the cheap, product of your labor
You’ve fed and clothed me
You, the least of these

Their cries stifled and silent
Small stone cold faces
Slaves of the ages of industry
If I refuse to believe this
Blind to the anguish
Could I ever change it