Imaginings of Fr. Rupert Mayor

I. My whole body was trembling in shock My blood, as if flowing back to my heart, dizzied My vision as I kept on In my delirium to aid the young man spitting up his own organs beside me. His organs are my organs. The sound was clear and very loud and My leg was gone. And if I was so permitted I was to rage on for the Lord on one. For to rage on I must. II. This passionate young man, Adolf, Exciting them all among beer and music, politics and games. Straining his voice. What do they want me to say? His voice is my voice. And he is just a boy, and I just a messenger. The crowd before us like wet clay pleading for shape. Then let it be so, I will try, For to rage on I must. III. Only my voice with Him now and the damp Stone that surrounds high above in this prison With suited men loaded with guns below among Trampled flowers that carried my name across A still-molding country and His guns are my guns, and His name wants my name, And I will give it to Him because Still! Still! Still I rage on. Though no one is here to hear. So I pray. I pray still.