They had no names the world would keep,
No years to mark, no tales retold;
Too small to speak, too young to weep
In words the strong would dare to hold.
No songs were sung above their beds,
No angels named them in the square.
A tyrant feared what heaven said
And answered hope with broken prayer.
The mothers cried. The earth stood still.
The night received what swords had claimed.
And yet, beneath that savage will,
God counted each, and called them named.
For death mistook the Child it sought
And struck where Life had briefly been.
But blood once spilled was not for naught—
The Lamb stood near the slain unseen.
They died because the Christ would live.
They fell where heaven would not flee.
Their loss is what the ages give
A warning carved in memory.
So Holy Innocents, at rest,
Your silence speaks where words run thin:
God’s kingdom comes to those oppressed,
And Christ is found among the slain.
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