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Arr. Peter Ovard

This song without words is an ideological juxtaposition of its melodies. I was inspired by the words of Emma Lazarus in her poem The New Colossus: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send thee, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Increasingly, we seem to shutter that golden door and forget the shoulders upon which we stand, those huddled masses that have grown into the sweet land of liberty which we call home. We can’t forget the strangers and the forlorn who are ultimately more than strangers, more than friends, but are our sisters, our brothers. Then in a moment to my view The stranger started from disguise. The tokens in his hands I knew; The Savior stood before mine eyes. He spake, and my poor name he named, “Of me thou hast not been ashamed. These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto me.”

For more works by this composer click here to visit their composer page.