It was a gloomy day in Newtown,
and I think it should have been gloomy.
The sun has now sunk quietly behind the sky
and the Sabbath begins
with the yawning and stretching of 3 tiny stars.
Good Friday has passed and He is officially dead.
The lights have all gone out,
and as I sit alone at Tinsley’s grave,
I hear a broken Mother Mary
weeping in the dark.