A picturesque sunset, marred by streaks of gray
Shine down on the children
Dancing on his grave

Maybe they're unknowing, maybe they don't care
Maybe they are faithful, maybe they dispair

The phrophet speaks of revelation
Crying to the heavens in frustration

Tithe me, Son, your paycheck
It is mine to hold
Deliverence for Christmas
God is bathed in gold

Byzantium has been destroyed
Babylon is burning
Tha archangel stands to guard these gates
Flaming sword is yearning

A mask of untold perfection, scarred by tainted claws
Poison seeps, and it keeps, discovering the flaws

Celtic curse, a heathen verse, or flogged like Opus Dei
Boring blight, this painful plight, are you going to be saved?

Stand upon the front-lines, banners surely waving
Exhalting your own sainthood upon the multitudes you're saving

Maybe you are Chritian, maybe the Anti-Christ
Can an Atheist save you?, Who's to know the wise?

A shard belonging to the cross, picture on a shroud
Word engraved upon a rock, dare you voice these fears aloud?

Dead men speaking from the words on a page
Knowing that if Jesus comes you will not be saved