We built her tall on borrowed light,
skyscrapers kissing clouds,
yet forgot the cornerstone was Christ,
not steel, not pride, not crowds.

Our fathers knelt in valley forges,
prayed beneath the cannon’s roar;
they signed their names with trembling hands
and sealed them “In God, once more.”

But now the altars gather dust,
the pulpits trade in shame;
we crown the self, we bow to lust,
and dare invoke His name.

The unborn cry from metal trays,
the addict chokes on night;
the widow weeps, the orphan strays—
we call it “personal right.”

Our borders bleed, our children scroll
through fire on glowing screens;
we teach them doubt, we sell their souls
for likes and dopamine dreams.

The courtroom scoffs at ancient law,
the classroom bans the Book;
we mock the God who once we saw
in every mountain brook.

Yet still He waits—
the patient Flame
that lit the pilgrim spark;
the Voice that whispered through the frame
of freedom in the dark.

America cannot survive but God—
not policy, not might;
only on our knees, beneath the rod
of mercy, can we fight.

Repent, return, rebuild the wall
with hands that once were stained;
for every empire doomed to fall
forgot from whence it came.

Let freedom ring, but let it ring
from steeples, not from chains;
let justice roll, let mercy sing—
America, born again.