In the red dust of Nigeria rise
acacias shaped like broken crosses;
before the dawn, in secret, they meet,
mothers and fathers guarding their losses.

Mothers with babies bound to their backs,
Bibles held close as their only shield;
smoke of burnt villages stains the air,
yet low their singing is never stilled.

Masked riders thunder out of the night,
blades catching starlight, cold and cruel;
they drag the daughters who will not bow,
they silence sons who speak the truth.

Schoolyards lie empty, desks overturned,
sanctuaries shattered, windows bleed light;
yam fields drink blood of the ones who believed,
moon hangs above like a wound in the night.

Under the ashes a Bible lies open,
pages unburned though the building fell;
a child lifts verses still warm from her hand,
words that outlived the fire of hell.

In the camps a thousand voices arise,
one song in many tongues, one stubborn Yes;
no weapons answer the roar of the guns,
only the promise that God will bless.

Deborah stoned for speaking the truth,
Pastor Lawan slain at the pulpit’s rim,
Grace Taku’s throat cut while praising His name—
their blood cries louder than lies about them.

Nigeria, vast and wounded land,
when will you hear your children cry?
When will the silence be broken at last
and justice roll down like rain from the sky?

Yet the church does not curse the dark—
she kindles it, small flame by flame:
funeral songs and wedding praise,
bread and cup shared without shame.

Seeds are planted in bullet holes,
Scripture scratched on prison stone;
the wounded Bride still kisses the sword
and whispers, “Father, bring them home.”

One day the smoke will lift and clear,
green shoots will break through concrete and bone;
travellers will ask who gardened here—
the answer: those who sang alone.

Until that morning, pray for the saints
who carry the cross we wear as gold;
their wounds are doors—do not look away,
step through, and the story will be told.

The persecuted church in Nigeria stands—
a lamp on a hill that cannot be hidden,
a city set high though the night presses hard,
salt of the earth, light of the world unforbidden.
Though they kill the body, the soul they cannot slay;
these are the seed that falls and dies, yet rises to stay;
these are the overcomers by the blood of the Lamb
and the word of their witness—forever they stand.