God in Heaven, my Oppressors hold their heads high as they stride proudly,

They keep my Soul in a laminated sleeve.

How does the C.O. sleep like I do at night

After the coldest day's through?

Does he toss and turn? Does his conscience burn?

Is he a prisoner, under Your firm, blue roof?

Deep in this Penitentiary, brimming with misery, Curses and Sin,

Do the days weigh in his chest?

When he goes home

To his house and wife,

How does he get the rest I do?

He is not so different than me.

I look through cold bars to stare at Your stars, O' Lord.

All beings await You!