Jilted tongues
In sorrow sleep
Leaving long hard words
To lie in deep

Follow home
The awful truth
Feel the silent loss
Of guileless youth

A dead man walks
A crowded street
Into the place the grand
Assembly meets

Guilty hands
Stitched on their mouths
And arrowed fingers aim
To point you out

Oh, strain to tell
Sound the mission bell
The magistrate
Is poisoning the well

Innocent blood
Has stained the tree
Heads in sorrow hang
While walking free

Seven days
Beneath the storm
The bottle washed up on
A desert shore

Oh, strain to tell
Sound the mission bell
The magistrate
Is poisoning the well