The glorious beasts with many eyes Exult before the Crowned. The buried saints arise, arise Like incense from the ground!

Before them march the martyr-kings, In bloody sunsets drest, O, Kansas, bleeding Kansas, You will not let me rest!

I hear your sighing corn again, I smell your prairie-sky, And I remember five dead men By Pottawattamie.

Lord God it was a work of Thine, And how might I refrain? But Kansas, bleeding Kansas, I hear her in her pain.

Her corn is rustling in the ground, An arrow in my flesh. And all night long I staunch a wound That ever bleeds afresh.