Tyburn, The Martyr's Tale Poem by Sue Oxley

In passionate blood and rushing commitment
He runs to the killing fields, clutching the sacrifice,
Gladdened mad with ecstasy,
Caught in great shining gold-bright nets of faith.
'Great God, ' he calls, 'Great God consume me, '
And with his arms open, embracing the Universe
Springs into the wide and everlasting Sea.


But now the Never Green Tree
Has him trapped in her branches.
The hanging man kicking
Across the baying crowds.
The rutting heaves of the awful multitude
Squirm in excitement at the promise of his blood.
The screams, the lusts
That are desperate to lie
And take the hard spear of life and death
Fight all around him,
Taking his breath in their bestial depths
To cut at more than the knife.

He twists his head against the twisted rope
That chaffs and rubs, as his stomach lurches
From the swaying drop,
And the smell of death
From the parted body below.
He hangs in despair
As grief for his life's foul ending
Rises up through the choking hatred that surrounds him.

Then suddenly
the world stops.

Then silently
the Universe calls.

In awe he lifts his dying eyes
To look across
At a white raised hand.

The crowd and noise fade into the mist,
As through the silvery light
Flows constant, silent absolution