The twisted old olive tree calls me
To come with a noose for my neck,
To close the circle at last.
I who was born on a stormy night
So long ago in Kerioth,
Among the hills where lightning shrieked,
Will dangle now from a wrathful cloud.
The Day of Judgment has come.
Silver burns a hole in my palm.
A vixen cries mockingly in the field.
My mind is blank, I understand nothing,
Nothing now can save me from myself.
Lord, Master, I loved you as a brother!
Would that I could kiss you again,
And you would know my faith.
Was this my fate ordained by God?
Was it for this monstrous purpose I was born?
To be the very lowest of the damned?
I shall never see Jerusalem uplifted,
My face will not be among the blessed;
O, let the fires consume me all in all,
And leave not a single foul speck!
Lord, I only wished to serve you,
To herald the Coming, unshackle the enslaved,
That all might cry allelulia to the heavens,
A nation once more, proud and whole.
What voice guided me, God or the Devil?
Now sentence is passed, without reprieve,
This barren acre bought with blood
Will be my grave, unvisited, except by the wind
That scourges this earth to the bone.
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