I have looked a thousand times
To see if it’s still there:
A face upon the windowpane,
High up on Courthouse Square.
A hundred thirty years ago
This arsonist and thief
Was hidden from an angry mob,
Murderous with grief.
Secluded in a tiny room
Above the people’s roar,
The prisoner feared for his life
And paced the wooden floor.
From the west, a thunderstorm
Blew in upon the town,
And lightning flashed upon the glass
Where the man was looking down.
His image was recorded there
For all the world to see;
A portrait of a criminal,
Hung high above the street.
Stories have been written,
And exaggerated tales,
Of the “Face in the Courthouse Window”
And the man named Henry Wells.
Most of what you hear is rumor,
But I know this much is true:
Late at night in the Carrollton Courthouse,
Henry paces in his room.
