Brian P FitzGerald
Under the Market Cross
A murky mist now grips my brain.
My thoughts, they reel in mire so chilling;
My eyes see nothing but driving rain;
Despair is such, no hope instilling.
In abject grief, on pillar I lean;
Those I knew, now know me not,
I'm now a part of life's unclean,
In lonely squalor I exist and rot.
People pass, heads bowed low,
Thoughtless, complacent and unaware
Of those who lie in anguish, tho'
Cold and bloody, in despair.
Declared unclean, hated, abused;
Despised and broken, and rejected I be;
Spat upon, cursed, punched and bruised,
Forsaken by all - no longer free.
I try to forgive, so difficult I know,
Battered and mugged, no life held dear,
I lie so cold, no future now?
I'm left to bleed with death so near.
To bring the Word to them I strove
For them it was I lived and died
For them it was for truth I drove
For them it was I cried
For them I prayed, this I vow;
For them I gave my life my all.
Forsake me not! Hear me now!
In you I trust, hear my call.
Am I forsaken? - my heart-felt cry;
Forgive; they know not what they do;
In you I trust! death defy!
My life in death I offer you.
Early hours in the Market place
Upon the cross a body bared -
A corpse, unkempt, with bloody face;
The crowd, so curious, stood and stared.
(Beverley, UK,16 April 2014)
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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