Stranger calling

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