The Winding Shroud

take me gently
from my martyr's cross
and lay me on the ground
near the feet of my mother

wipe not the blood from my face
for I have earned every drop
nor remove my thorny crown
god only knows
heaven cares nothing
for appearances

carry me slowly in
the soft greys of death
and suffer me to come
unto my father

wrap me carefully
in my winding shroud
humble linen
stained with sorrow
and leave me
asleep in my tomb

there is nothing more
a silver cloud
my mother's womb