Stumble down the pathway,
twisting through the meadow.
Gather me the rain
and anoint my brow with tears.

Give unto me your love,
as I've condemned myself to die,
lie before my grave
and anoint my brow with tears.

Sing to me, oh beautiful child:
a voice of many angels,
with soft verse and timid refrain
and anoint my brow with tears.

Die beside me, painless and of age
as I lie with outstretched arms,
knowing our hearts will soon be one
I'll anoint your brow with joy.

Jonathan C. Watridge
Nov 29th, 1999