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...They even claimed that Diaz died,
cut down by Smith’s swift, steady hand,
but Ramsey was nowhere near there,
did not go down amongst the damned.

Instead he was miles away,
slumped half-defeated on his horse,
he had escaped, but thoughts were dark
and depressed as a matter of course.

How could he feel anything else
after all that had just occurred?
Sure, he’d seen his mistakes in time,
but the weight of his past sins burned.

Had he not killed seizing that town,
forced women to bend to his will?
Had he not stolen what they’d made
under threat of them being killed?

Could anyone come back from that?
It was a thing he didn’t know,
he hadn’t felt such weight before,
and his thoughts were becoming low.

He saw the shiny metal gun,
in the holster there on his hip,
was the what ruined men should do?
Was that how he could pay for it?

He hoisted it up in his hands,
felt the final weight of the gun…
when a fleet voice said “{Verily,
you will be with Me in Heaven.}”

He turned, but he saw nothing there,
nobody in sight for miles,
then sighed and put the gun away,
and continued through the wild.

He changed his name, of course, the law
still put a price upon his head,
that new name he brought to this place,
this Mission where he’d find a bed.

That name is now on the front gate,
for the orphans he raised inside,
that name is what the pope called him
when the man became canonized.

It was the name that others knew
when he ministered to their sick,
he’s a hero under that name,
but you see, it just didn’t stick.

Folks come here seeking out his grave,
a saint's pilgrimage they all say,
they don’t find that name in our plots,
disappointed, they go one their way.

We don’t tell them he’s in plain sight,
‘Ramsey Diaz’ is on his stone,
since that’s the name he was saved as,
and to God alone now is known…
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