The Night The Cross Smashed In Two Poem by Francis Duggan

On the third morning of January nineteen and eighty four
Across the top of Clara hill a gale force wind did roar
And the wooden cross which stood up there for thirty years or more
Was fighting for survival like it never fought before.

In the darkness of the morning in the driving wind and rain
The wooden cross on Clara hill was at the breaking strain
And it's timbers were a creaking in a beg for mercy plea
But the raging winds of Clara kept blowing mercilessly.

The wooden cross stood shaking as the power of the wind grew
Till it finally had to give way and it's timber broke in two
And the wind like tireless boxer had won the final round
And the wooden cross of Clara hill went crashing to the ground.

Save for a brief, brief period when storm caused it to fall
For thirty years on Clara hill that cross stood proud and tall
But now only it's bottom part a shattered length of wood
Stands on that wind bedevilled spot where the proud cross once stood.

And though men may erect another cross the story will end the same
For years it may defy the wind till the gales blow themselves tame
But the wind will finally triumph and prove once and for all
That man's work is not that important and what man achieve is small.