In my mind I see them, children of the land,
Black as darkest Africa, standing with an outstretched hand.
I see their stomach's bloated, signs of despair,
Yet on I go with my life and couldn't even care.

I smell the stench of flesh as vultures have their meal,
Yet my heart's turned hard... too hard to feel.
...Hey I'm on top of the world, living out in Hollywood,
Everything's fine and dandy... "It's all good".

Yet you and me we know, that somewhere they're still out there,
But it's far away in Africa, why should we even care?
I see their plight on TV and hear it on the news,
But that's someone else's problem, we all have our own views.

After all, it's money that they're really asking for,
And when it comes to that, well I just shut the door.
Cause even if I help them, they'll only sink down deeper,
And after all... "Who made me my brother's keeper?".

Now in my mind they haunt me, these children of the land,
For I know I saw them standing with an outstretched hand.
And now when I see them lying... dying... thin, torn and bare,
I look down at that outstretched hand and can't help but stare.

And although I pinch myself and vigorously blink my eyes,
I must painfully accept what now my heart denies.
For the hand that lies before me was painfully pierced through,
With a cruel rusty nail that was meant for me and you.

Now when in darkest Africa, walking down the street,
And just by chance, a child of the land, I'd happen to meet.
No longer will I cause a fuss and say,
"You're bothering me", "I have no time, just go away!".

Instead I'll take that hand, grip it real tight,
Open my heart and spread a little light.
For now I know the truth and although I shrink in shame,
The fact is: a heart without charity cannot call on His Name!