The irony’s not lost on my as still I stand while all of they with good, divine responsibility have felt the weight of their rebellion claim the life that they were granted by their kind, Creator King

For me and all my brethren tall are groaning quite majestically as we experience effects of sins of little men although we try with all our given strength to sing the praise of He who fashioned us when life was young, before the birth of all humanity

But in the death of He who my Creator sent, the little men, my stewards small, have found the only hope to live for all eternity, when sky and ground are made anew, when wickedness has disappeared and they are free from sin’s effects, in sweet communion with my Good, Creator King

Where once were Keeps and Bastions tall and fiercely bright now meekly stand defiant stones in dying rest, poor serfs of time, that cruel exacting lord

I long have lain upon this Rock, though once I lived upon the peak of warm, inviting halls, where members of humanity brought worship to their God above, where Kings and Monarchs once ruled o’er all the green, pastoral lands near round about, where now a recollection floats in time and space, remembering the golden days of mirthful joy gone softly, slowly by

And still that cold, unfeeling lord is marching on with I myself a slave unto its cruel and hateful work

I stand here perched by lough and sliabh

A puny soul both ably blessed and slyly cursed

I’ll never be as grand as all the stony mountains great nor peaceful as the lovely lake that sits below in noble calm tranquility

But still I glory in my place, to view the beauty round about my growing wooden frame: the balded hills, the woolly trees and waters cool and sweet

And so I’m thankful to my Maker for the life I calmly, slowly live