Declamation Piece Vengeance Is Not Ours, Its Gods

Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin,
and so ragged.Why are you staring at me? With my eyes I cannot see but I know that you are all
staring at me. Why are you whispering to one another? Why? Do you know my mother? Do you know
my father? Did you know me five years ago?

Yes, five years of bitterness have passed. I can still remember the vast happiness mother and I
shared with each other. We were very happy indeed.

Suddenly, five loud knocks were heard on the door and a deep silence ensued. Did the cruel
Nippons discover our peaceful home? Mother ran to Fathers side pleading. Please, Luis, hide in
the cellar, there in the cellar where they cannot find you, I pulled my fathers arm but he did not
move. It seemed as though his feet were glued to the floor.

The door went bang and before us five ugly beasts came barging in. Are you Captain Luis
Santos? roared the ugliest of them all. Yes, said my father. You are under arrest, said one of
the beasts. They pulled father roughly away from us. Father was not given a chance to bid us
goodbye.

We followed them mile after mile. We were hungry and thirsty. We saw group of Japanese eating.
Oh, how our mouths watered seeing the delicious fruits they were eating,

Then suddenly, we heard a voice call, Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . . Oscar. . . . Consuelo. . . .
Oscar. . . . we ran towards the direction of the voice, but it was too late. We saw father hanging
on a tree. . . . dead. Oh, it was terrible. He had been badly beaten before he died. . . . and I cried
vengeance, vengeance, vengeance! Everything went black. The next thing I knew I was nursing my
poor invalid mother.

One day, we heard the church bell ringing ding-dong, ding-dong! It was a sign for us to find a
shelter in our hide-out, but I could not leave my invalid mother, I tried to show her the way to the
hide-out.

Suddenly, bombs started falling; airplanes were roaring overhead, canyons were firing from
everywhere. Boom, boom, boom, boom! Mother was hit. Her legs were shattered into pieces. I
took her gently in my arms and cried, Ill have vengeance, vengeance! No, Oscar. Vengeance, its
Gods, said mother.

But I cried out vengeance. I was like a pent-up volcano. Vengeance is mine not the Lords. No,
Oscar. Vengeance is not ours, its Gods these were the words from my mother before she died.

Mother was dead and I was blind. Vengeance is not ours? To forgive is divine but vengeance is
sweeter. That was five years ago, five years. . . .

Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so young, so thin,
and so ragged. Vengeance is not ours, its Gods. . . . Its. . . . Gods. . Its
Oratorical Piece: Dirty Hands
Im proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and
knobby and calloused. And Im proud of the dirt and the knobs and the
calluses. I didnt get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon
tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at
charity balls.

I got them that way by working with them, and Im proud of the work and the
dirt. Why shouldnt I feel proud of the work they do these dirty hands of
mine?

My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of
carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel.

They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they
are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.

Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty
hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would
kiss the hands of ladies fair. Im proud of my dirty hands. The world has kissed
such hands. The world will always kiss such hands. Men and women put
reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the
plane. His werent pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged
rough lumber, and wielded carpenters tools. They were workingmans hands
strong, capable proud hands. And werent pretty hands when the
executioners got through them. They were torn right clean through by ugly
nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds
were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers
were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.

They werent pretty hands then, but, Oh God, they were beautiful those
hands of the Savior. Im proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands
of God.

And Im proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the
Hands of my God!