Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Cry

So they say the sun was shining

The water gleamed on the Wigtown bay

So they say the wind was howling through

Margaret Wilson, hair all of flaxen

Mary MacLachlan’s of grey


In a years around 1680

They bound the church to the king’s care

Who’d deny his sovereign power

Would soon come to meet their despair

Would soon come to meet their despair


Cry, cry, cry for the wicked

Cry, cry, cry for the shame

Cry, cry cry to the Father

Freedom . . . is now their fame

Freedom . . . is now their fame


In the cold and swirling waters

To the stakes they were tied

There they plunged the Margaret’s bodies

In the cold, cold waves of Solway tide

In the cold, cold waves of Solway tide


Cry, cry, cry for the wicked

Cry, cry, cry for the shame

Cry, cry cry to the Father

Freedom . . . is now their fame

Freedom . . . is now their fame


Freedom from sins mighty power

Freedom from tyranny’s fiercest sword

Freedom from their shackled bodies

Cries of prayer their only word

Cries of prayer ‘neath the waves were heard


(based on a true story)