A stranger stands upon a hill, grey-clad and dark to the rain
On his hand, a devil’s brand, and his eyes set a glare on the pane
Through the window which trembles comes sighing his scream
A death-rattle of fen-moss, of foul phages and frosted steam
Thereupon a hill, where ravens on the gallows perch, he stands
A hellish light and brimstone power burns the air and blood demands
A stranger came to cold fen-town, and stood upon a hill
He stood beside the gallows, looking down upon the people
Gathered there to witness bear before a reckoning of men
And none he spared, and none he spared, of that gathering of men