When the Martyr Fell

When the wind swept down from a lofty hill, a gentle breeze that lingers still, Came tumbling over the sodden grave, of the Man that fought long and brave. I remember his name, though he wanted no fame. He said to me, I am called Samedi. I am He who will bleed during the Time of Great Need. I am going to die, this I do not fear. My time is thin, but to my love I draw near. I am the Hero that sat with the Devil underneath the sky, I am He who knelt before God and watched the Great Deity cry. He wept for all the angels that had failed, and he shed tears for me when I prevailed. For he knew what was to come, and I knew what would have to be done. For this purpose here I stand, to take Man by the long ignored hand. I am the Martyr who did not turn his cheek. I am the Hero which the tired seek.