| On the streets of New York city when the hour was getting late |
| There were young men armed with knives and guns, young men armed with hate |
| And Lou Marsh stepped between them and died there in his tracks |
| For one man is no army when the city turns its back |
| Now the streets are empty, now the streets are dark |
| So keep an eye on shadows and never pass the park |
| For the city is a jungle when the law is out of sight |
| And death lurks in El Barrio with the orphans of the night |
| He left behind a chamber of a church he served so long |
| For he learned the prayers of distant men will never right the wrongs |
| His church became an alley and his pulpit was the street |
| He made his congregation from the boys he used to meet |
| There were two gangs approaching in Spanish Harlem town |
| The smell of blood was in the air, the challenge was laid down |
| He felt their blinding hatred, and he tried to save their lives |
| And the answer that they gave him was their fists and feet and knives |
| Will Lou Marsh lie forgotten in his cold and silent grave? |
| Will his memory still linger on, in those he tried to save? |
| All of us who knew him will now and then recall |
| And shed a tear on poverty, tombstone of us all |