There exists in America a forgotten place, far from the eyes of society. Hidden things transpire there that are not spoken of often, and if they are communicated the retaliation of those in power can be swift. It is a place where one must enter by being buzzed through locked doors. One must sign registers revealing social security number, birth date, and licensing simply to visit there so the keepers can browse ones personal files for past problems or current warrants. It is the last bastion of grave injustice in America, our jails.

Behind the locked doors , I have observed those many people from all walks of life coming and going to visit and support their loved ones who are locked away. The stories I have heard are without end, and the things I have seen very much trouble me. Captives without voice, without money, without representation. From the young woman so stressed because the phone card machine ate her last $20 and who had not even the funds to buy groceries for her children, to the spanish speaking ladies I helped use the commissary machine to leave money on an inmate account, to the young pregnant woman crying in the elevator, to the man who was trying to get medical care for his sister who was badly in need of surgery, each have their stories. A story of people simply trying to live and get by, caught up in and powerless in the face of something that should not be. I did never think to see in the United States the injustice I've seen there in the jails. Perhaps injustice was there all along, but I had no occasion until now to be where these things transpire.

One Saturday morning, as I felt such frustration over missing funds and lost Bibles, feeling the powerlessness of the situation, I found myself humming a hymn. Not a nice Sunday morning hymn, but a fierce hymn causing goosebumps to race up and down my arms. I did not even realize I was doing this until a woman signing in at the register glanced over at me. ... Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on... Now why would such a song come subconsciously to me? There in our last bastion of slavery in the United States, where the lives of men are traded and great money is made in doing so? There where those frequently without money and without voice are found?

The last words spoken in public address by the great Dr. Martin Luther King. "... Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Watching him give this speech and hearing those final words from his mouth also make goosebumps run up and down my arms. I look into his face as he says those words so fiercely and can hear God speak through him. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0FiCxZKuv8 If you have not seen this it is well worth watching.