Wringing his hands
The clergy walks
Below the planks
Where stands a man
Condemned to die
For wicked things
Above the boards
A gentle creak
Betrays the soles
Of hooded men
With tools to make
The scene unfold
A Traitor’s death
Pronounced upon
The blinded face
A tired man
Condemned to die
For wicked things
The innocent
In silent rows
Before the stage
A verdict wrote
In faded ink
Upon a page
Within the cord
A last reward
His wages paid
A tired man
Condemned to die
For wicked things
From underneath
The ebony
His sunless cloak
The eyes are closed
But still they see
The charges made
Without a word
Or further stay
The floor gives way
For a tired man
A wicked man
Or so they say
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