As a child was told one day, The seeds that one must to be content,
To withhold, from their Sight, or to be blessed,
Like this beaten man,
Clothed in sued, Dressed in hate, Coat of blood tares his eyes from his soul,
to my soul, this child no longer whole.

In blackened lands, complacent sins,
A child stands, living out the burden of man,
Catalyst, marching up this hill with ecliptic fire that has demised his will,
It seems to him, he is fitting, with the cowardice of men,

It seems no end, to this hell,
A frigid chill, as they stick the needle in,
Mesmerized, by the pounding of nails through skin,
To assimilate to their callous winds,
They pull him up; they raise a knife, and give it to me,

Now I must cut, deep into skin of man,
And now your one of us, deceived by ancient lust,
There are no eyes that are comforting,
Your pious wounds are deepening,
This bastard form of life,
This sod has lost his rights,

This nightmare has, escaped my hands,
Now he bleeds, as we cut off the hands of Christ,
Everything, has been lost with this winter,
Pestilent shades of the chorus, we sang,
No innocence, no common place, only darkness to,

Save him from this debaucher/catatonic site,
And now you taste his blood,
Christ has been left from us,
Your Pontius hands aren't comforting,
Your pious wounds now sinking in,
My soul have lost all sight,
Degradation has become my fight.

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