The Witness

            Like a candle on a hill you flickered

In a gale of will;

You smoked like flax

Put out almost by pride—

Agonized to shine

But never cried—never

Breathed a sigh of weariness  

Or pain but trimmed your blackened

Wick and blazed again. 

Wind mocked the burning truth   

You beamed all night—

And scoffed that righteousness 

Isn’t right—but you

Smiled back—laughed, even,

At the fire

Rebellion bellowed in your face— 

And, radiant with the martyr’s prayer,

Died happy in the candle’s blaze.  

--CJW--