(Words and Music by Joan Baez)

    Once again the workers rise with the lark
    There's a mass going on in the people's park
    Silent and determined they set to embark
    On a three day fast and a five mile march
    For a man's been shot on the picket line
    Sixty years of strength was young for dying
    His family is here with eyes of red
    His wife steps down with feet of lead

    And the sun shines down upon
    The old man whose days are done
    For a martyr has been taken
    He is old Juan de la Cruz

    And a century of women pray
    At the casket before them laid
    And the Virgin of Guadalupe
    Watches over de la Cruz

    As the heat poured down on the field below
    The lead came a-flying from the vineyard row
    De la Cruz and his wife never ducked or ran
    Union folks since the fight began
    People scattered out laying low to the ground
    And slowly arose as the dust died down
    Birds fluttered soft in his sweet wife's breast
    As the bullets sank deep in the old man's chest

    The tears fell as Cesar read
    The eulogy for the dead
    And the Bishop broke the people's bread
    Over old Juan de la Cruz

    In the pitch of night a deal was made
    The deck's oldest card was played
    And the devil watched someone get paid
    For the death of de la Cruz

    Thirty years ago in the same damn spot
    The people who ordered the workers shot
    Fought as the poor for the same damn right
    Of their children to sleep well fed at night
    Oh Children of Brotherhood how you've grown
    But the seeds of hate were early sown
    I see that your souls have long since flown
    To the river of greed where angels moan

    Midst flowered veils and weathered graves
    And flags where the great black eagle waves
    Nosotros Venceremos plays
    For old Juan de la Cruz

    There's work today that must be done
    Pray for the man who held the gun
    And with sightless eyes shot down the one
    Called old Juan de la Cruz

    The rest of our story now soft and clear
    How half our daily bread appears
    Picked through the summer by young and old
    Whose earnings must last through the winter's cold
    By children who have stood with their backs bent down
    To scrape the roots from the grower's ground
    And mothers who have wept the night away
    For a child born dead on a rainy day

    Well it's true that blessed are the poor
    Through an iron mist - I can't be sure -
    It looks like I see heaven's door
    Swinging wide for de la Cruz

    The nuns, the priests and the workers sing
    Through a valley of blood their voices ring
    Hallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, Lord
    For old Juan de la Cruz

    Hallelujah, he is risen, and thank you, Lord
    For old Juan de la Cruz

    © 1975, 1978 Chandos Music (ASCAP)

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