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Guest
Guest
There is blood on the cross
And the root of its vine,
As the blade of injustice cuts swathes to beguile.
There is blood on the hem
On the robes of the sure,
With the mild hum of envy pulsating impure.
There is blood on the churchsteps,
The blood of the mild.
Rex Mundi in gold as we scour the wild.
There is blood on the parchments,
Of a truth never told,
While the masses are hungered, tired, cold.
There is blood in the temples,
Of whom they shan't tell.
But an air of injustice still hangs rank and stale.
There is blood on the tongues
For the lies of the teeth.
Do not bury me in the domain of a thief.
There is blood on parade,
Still lecturing proud,
Whilst I cover my ears with an impenetrable shroud.
There is blood on the cross
Drying hard to a crust,
Mutating the image to an inevitable dust.
"Blood On The Cross"
And the root of its vine,
As the blade of injustice cuts swathes to beguile.
There is blood on the hem
On the robes of the sure,
With the mild hum of envy pulsating impure.
There is blood on the churchsteps,
The blood of the mild.
Rex Mundi in gold as we scour the wild.
There is blood on the parchments,
Of a truth never told,
While the masses are hungered, tired, cold.
There is blood in the temples,
Of whom they shan't tell.
But an air of injustice still hangs rank and stale.
There is blood on the tongues
For the lies of the teeth.
Do not bury me in the domain of a thief.
There is blood on parade,
Still lecturing proud,
Whilst I cover my ears with an impenetrable shroud.
There is blood on the cross
Drying hard to a crust,
Mutating the image to an inevitable dust.
"Blood On The Cross"