Frere, wherever we may go, is the Frere.

E’re I go, to be found, of the tree;

E’re I go their eyes look right through me.

E’re I go, to be bound, snugged to the Tree.

There be festivals, and in the smiling faces to see

Ignominy, doubt and bitterness, boredom, redundancy.

The drink their fill, fuggoff the wee hours, dance-out eternity

E’re I go, to be bound, a low-born Good Frere on the Tree.

It befogged them, didn’t it?

Good shepherd, and both, Lamb Of God?

E’re to be found in the infamous book,

E’re I go they speak of the Good Frere on the Tree.

That I was he, and he was you, and you were me–

And we three were exponents, opponents, push pulls infernally

They say he carried our debt of sin;

But then we too, bidden take up the burden,

So which is it, what did he gift to us:

That Good Frere on the Tree.

“He who made the Lamb made thee.”

And “did he smile his work to see”

This he did for you, and for you unto me,

The Good Frere on the Tree.