Spilling the blood,
To sanctify our sacred grounds,
You seek to wipe away our history,
But you did not expect to find me,

Clad in finery you speak as the voice of god from upon your knees,
As you please,

It is not beyond my understanding,
No, I've seen it done before,
Your words are no more mighty,
You voice is no stronger,
Your Book of Revelation strikes in me no fear,
The doom of which you speak,
Cannot wrack my soul,

You rode your stallion up to the gates of dawn,
Command your sheep, bleat and bray,
Defeat is not your undertaker, it is your teacher,
The weight of failure will remain,
As they say,
Flames infernal, torment eternal,
Angelic choirs guide me on my way to the slab,
The one with the head of a ram,
Ponders and postulates and puts me in my place,

Bearing the Word,

It is not without guilt that I do this. Know that there is no other way. If we
see each other after this life, we will know that one of us was right and one
was wrong. We bless each other with the blood. I hurt with the knife but I
also heal. The stones are the only ones that will remember us and they alone
will be fit to judge me.

You perhaps are just misguided but still I glide my knife across your wrists,
It is my wish,
Your sycophantic dogma begets a wounded world of hate,
Don't you see? Tell me to believe,