Sadness overwhelms the mourners as they look upon my grave.
Enough to cleave all the angels of heaven in t'wain.
Fear not for my soul, for unlike most, I go to join Satan and his rebel host.

Condemned by the almighty and sent down below, the creations of evil begin to grow.
Pain and anguish, like deep wounds, they fester. But still we march on to destroy our creator.

The ringing of swords, resounding below, is the sound of our victory o'er the angelic foe.
You curse us, you mock us, accuse us of heresy, and thus is the reason we offer no mercy. The sound of the trumpets that blare from above, is the cry of death, of the heav'nly dove.

No choir shall sing in the heavens above. No cry shall issue from the beak of the dove. No laughter of children, no harps and no lutes. We murdered your loved ones, smashed all the lutes. It'll be a fucking cold day in hell, the next time we hear the tolling of heavens bell.