Bells Of Time - David McWilliams

There are no saints or teachers

no reason here nor rhyme

just the black robed missionaries of death

to toll

the bells of time

down along the border

upon a lonely road

I saw a man in flowing robes

his hair was snowy white

he said he was five hundred years

and his hands were cold as ice

from touching all the dead men

who’d played the highest price

for living on his mountains

and running in his grass

he said he’d come to take his payment

before the hour was passed

he was tired of seeing thieves upon

what once was his alone

and ashes in his valleys

where once the flowers had grown

he said he’d seen the foreign kings

come marching through the mud

to carve their image on the land

and write their names in blood

and leave a legacy of hate

upon this sleeping land

that she might never rise again

to bide the feeding hand

he’d seen the halo’d churches rise

he’d watched the heroes fall

to lie beneath their banners

while Judas stands so tall

where behind Caesar’s scarlet sword

a smiling Jesus stands

no thorns upon his hooded brow

no holes into his shoulder

there’s no mark of shame

upon the sellers of the truth

so none may know their name