Suffer Not

Father,

take me to the hill,

ankles and wrists bound by chains.

Take me to my cross,

that pillar of wood.

 

I shall not resist.

 

Take me to the hill,

for I am the wicche,

a heretic

to be tied to the stake.

 

Mother,

take me to the hill,

my resting mound,

where the spirits of the dead wait.

 

Do not mourn me,

slay me,

for I am the wicche.

Rest my bones upon the wood

and light the match.

 

I shall not resist.

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