The Final Words of Comfort

The time of year was late, morning soft and sad.

Wind moaned o'er the heathered hill, grasses hissed

Their pain of dying at anyone who cared to hear.

From the mist, a man came forth to claim his due.

Noble gait that would not bear to stumble in the fog

Through dew and chill of dawn's approach, he climbed the hill.

How many others came before today? Only I could tell.

I've seen them come and go each one, no different was the end.

The guilty and the innocent have made that walk,

And now this man, but there was something else this time-

His fate was different from the rest, I could but watch and wait.

He took his place above the crowd, I saw him hang.

He was ignorant of the law, whatever it was,

For he was a stranger here, passing through and gone.

Nobody understood how he could simply disappear.

Once there was a body, then there was a shadow,

Until there was nothing left at all but empty noose.

The witnesses could neither mourn nor celebrate.

No trace of him was ever found, but the church bell tolled

In vain remembrance of whom its graves would never hold.

Justice seemed so hollow to the public on that day,

That ever since the heath-clad hanging hill has stood

Untouched by men who lost their taste for death,

And left the means to the end in my tender hands.

Justice may be blind, but it is also gone insane.

Enduring endless wandering between the winds,

A breath of pestilence, a whisper bourne on locust wings,

The righteous and the wicked feel alike my crippling touch.

Some fall to their knees and beg I'll pass them by

Or pray I'll take a cause and strike their enemies.

I brought the flood, the famine and the plague.

Another star that fell to earth and left its mark

A glorious twilight sight, a fearful omen

Tell me why my fate is such, I didn't mean to be your death.

All I see is equal but it doesn't matter in the end

They call me evil, but I have no pride to blunt the fall.

These hands have touched the masses while they grip the world,

All save one, that is- the man who got away from me,

Though I alone know what he did to earn his death.

His crime was murder, for he killed a dream

The people clung to in the belief they were civilized.

Until he told them they had become worse than me.

But I can hold no grudge against that man, you see,

For though I never took his life, he'd spoken true.

It was the law of man condemning those to die

For want of better penalty, but they don't know

And presume to usurp my judgement in its time.

Man must always meet a price, but I will work for free.