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Keith Robson

Bloodstained wood and broken souls
blistered skin on burning coals,
blinding sunshine in your face
and no-one sang Amazing Grace.

Shadow of the cross that falls
upon your crumbling holy walls,
casts only darkness in your eye
for you can never answer why.

In righteousness you seek to be
the magistrate of all you see,
but who will judge the magistrate
who stands before his golden gate?

Scourged with mercy, joyous pain
lets you be yourself again,
screaming at the smiling crowd
casting dice to win your shroud.

Your perfect peace is agonized
and flawless faith is just disguised,
to keep your word in all you said
your unheard promise to the dead.

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