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A heroine, a deity |
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On heroin or vanity |
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To jack their personality |
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Beyond normal humanity |
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A crowd of massed humanity |
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Bows down and worships diligently. |
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He's built a loyal following, |
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And soon they steer him thoroughly. |
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But jealous man plots from the pews-- |
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No need for valid righteousness |
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One slightly truthful word set free |
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Will turn the tides quite easily |
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Our accusations need not be |
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What would bury mortal man-- |
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The sins of our own deity |
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Are tiny, but on these we stand |
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We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands-- |
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We throw stones if our gods take a stand |
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We create and destroy our stigmata martyrs, stigmata martyrs |
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So once upon the podium |
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A crucifix we then erect |
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And nail our hero heartily, |
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Hands and feet, and bind his neck |
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The reason for our worship fades |
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Our idol's drenched in his own blood |
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Forgotten are the virtues that |
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We valued beyond royalty |
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We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands-- |
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We throw stones if our gods take a stand |
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We create and destroy our stigmata martyrs, stigmata martyrs |
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With joy we dig his shallow grave, |
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Anticipating pains to come |
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We watch the wriggling dance of death |
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And laugh, light-hearted, at death's fun |
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We've pounded out the joyous light; |
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Our savior's buried now for years |
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A legend now of time gone by, |
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A martyr of forgotten tears |
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We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands-- |
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We throw stones if our gods take a stand |
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We create and destroy our stigmata martyrs, stigmata martyrs |
