The Night The Cross Smashed In Two

On the third morning of January nineteen and eighty four Across the top of Clara hill a gale force wind did roar And the wooden cross which stood up there for thirty years or more Was fighting for survival like it never fought before. In the darkness of the morning in the driving wind and rain The wooden cross on Clara hill was at the breaking strain And it's timbers were a creaking in a beg for mercy plea But the raging winds of Clara kept blowing mercilessly. The wooden cross stood shaking as the power of the wind grew Till it finally had to give way and it's timber broke in two And the wind like tireless boxer had won the final round And the wooden cross of Clara hill went crashing to the ground. Save for a brief, brief period when storm caused it to fall For thirty years on Clara hill that cross stood proud and tall But now only it's bottom part a shattered length of wood Stands on that wind bedevilled spot where the proud cross once stood. And though men may erect another cross the story will end the same For years it may defy the wind till the gales blow themselves tame But the wind will finally triumph and prove once and for all That man's work is not that important and what man achieve is small.