Far off in the distance, I hear a tolling bell,
I walk along in cadence, encaptured in its spell,
I am just a traveller, passing by this way,
When I top that final hill, on cold December day.
A biting wind comes out the north, soon will its teeth spit snow,
An icy chill runs down my spine, as gaze on scene below,
Three people stand beside a grave, wood coffin lays inside,
Behind white church with tolling bell, a cold day to have died.
I think perhaps inside the church, some warmth that I will find,
So I walk towards the three, to ask if they would mind,
They stand in total silence, no sorrow can I see,
As I approach, three turn away, no word they say to me.
The bell is tolling louder now, as I stand alone,
Gazing down on open grave, beside a blank tombstone,
I look aound for mourners, no longer see the three,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost, the Holy Trinity.
Leafless trees above hang low, o'er deep and silent grave,
Winter is descending, soon will the land enslave,
Dark skies above foreboding, not yet a snowflake shed,
In grip of icy tenacle, feel touch of recent dead.
Soul's despair of haunting sorrow, hangs from the lifeless trees,
Clouds of terror reaching out, bell's tolling death decrees,
With mournful soul and somber limbs, am touched by lifeless breath,
At frozen grave stand face to face, with unrelenting death.
From the church's steeple, the bell tolls louder yet,
Within my mind a madness, the tolling has beset,
Do you hear the tolling, the tolling of the bell?
O' God, please stop the tolling, I hear my own death knell.