Prisoner of Valence (Pius VI)

Born on Christmas Day in Cesena's light, Seventeen-seventeen, a quiet start, Fifty-seven winters when the white smoke rose, February's bells in seventeen seventy-five. I built a house for marble gods and saints, The Pio-Clementino halls of stone, I thought my reign would be a gentle one, Of art and prayer, and a crown to call my own. Oh, carry me, carry me, over the mountains, An old man in chains with the keys in his hand, They can take the throne, they can take the city, But they cannot take the faith that I stand on! Carry me, carry me, over the cold roads, Eighty years old and still I will pray, Prisoner of Valence, but never forsaken, The keys are not iron, they will not decay! Then came the storm from across the border, The Revolution roared like a flood, A young general rose with a hunger for conquest, And Napoleon's armies came down on our blood. The treaties were signed, the treasures were taken, The Papal States bled for the price of the peace, Seventeen ninety-eight, the soldiers came knocking, And they dragged me from Rome with no hope of release. Oh, carry me, carry me, over the mountains, A pope in a carriage, a ghost in the snow, They can take the throne, they can take the city, But they cannot take the faith I hold close! Carry me, carry me, through the French villages, Crowds at the roadside who kneel as I pass, Prisoner of Valence, but never forsaken, The keys are not iron, they will not be lost! Tick, tock, the days grow thin, A cold stone room and a fading flame, They say that the papacy ends with me, That the Church will vanish and none will remain. But I have seen the dawn behind the dark, I have seen the seed beneath the stone, If this is the end, let it be the start, Someone will rise, and the keys will go on! August came with its heavy heat, Twenty-ninth, seventeen ninety-nine, In Valence, far from the Roman sun, Eighty-one years, and my hands still clasped in prayer. No bells in the Vatican rang for my passing, No crowds in the square, no marble tomb, But the story they told for a century after Was of a king who was freed by the grave. Oh, carry me, carry me, over the mountains, A pope in a carriage, a ghost in the snow, They can take the throne, they can take the city, But they cannot take the faith I hold close! Carry me, carry me, through the French villages, Crowds at the roadside who kneel as I pass, Prisoner of Valence, but never forsaken, The keys are not iron, they will not be lost! Valence... Valence... Let the keys be passed on... Let the keys be passed on...