Saint Patrick of Ireland

Mine eyes were alive with anger; for the gag was in my
mouth.

They bound me to a broken tree, with my face towards the
South

And hucksters watched and betted, when would the great
heart break

And pygmy pedants whipped me, for Thy name's sake

Thee, though the myrrh be bitter with the crushing of all
sweet things,

Though we fed upon hope and hatred, and the pride of the
ragged kings

And the two-edged sword of the spirit that wounds the
hand,

Torture could not take from us; this is thy land.

O smitten, O dolorous Mother, it the cross fall thwart of the
crown,

If thy rose grew dark in our garden, thy moon on our wrath
went down,

If too close be the cloud on Kiltartan, too deep the debt,
Forgive us when we forgive not; let us forget