Song | Horned Is the Hunter |
Artist | Sabbat |
Album | History of a Time to Come |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作曲 : Sneap, Walkyier | |
Alone he sits - | |
a vanquished Lord upon an oaken throne, | |
presiding o'er this conflict | |
that chills him to the bone, | |
for each tarnished blade that festers | |
is a thorn thrust in his side, | |
and His pain alone bears witness | |
to the folly of mankind. | |
What hope for a king with no kingdom to rule? | |
now his children desert him - | |
regard him a fool, | |
and are bonded to progress - | |
the plough and the scythe - | |
that lay waste and leave barren | |
what beauty survives | |
though legends of power and glory suffice - | |
for these 'latter-day-heroes' | |
who live out their lives, | |
chained by conformity shackled by greed - | |
and told to belive they don't want to be freed. | |
The enemy within us - | |
is well armed to spoil and rape, | |
and this mighty heart grows weaker with | |
each liberty they take, | |
so come ye from the shadows | |
do not tremble 'neath your beds, | |
at the mention of his name - | |
hold high your weary heads. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
Both wicked and lustful | |
this God's horny might, | |
He plays hide and seek | |
with the shadows of the night, | |
enthroned in high mountains - | |
nobility crowned with the wisdom of ages - | |
the forest his gown, | |
so nimble the fingers that pipe out the tune, | |
simple and pure is the song of the moon - | |
that echoes each evening the ritual performed, | |
a lament for a God to a Devil transformed. | |
Are there men among us | |
prepared to face the fight | |
who'll stand by their convictions | |
'gainst overwhelming might, | |
so do not hide like cowards | |
and await the bitter end, | |
come take your courage in both hands | |
and join with me my friend. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
A God of mant faces | |
yet none of them are known | |
existing in all places at all times - | |
His glory shown in the majesty of nature, | |
let the Hymn to Pan be sung | |
for the myth is but a History Of A Time To Come. | |
(Repeat stanzas 2,3 & 4) | |
His name is eternal - | |
His power unknown, | |
the ruler paternal - | |
He watches alone, | |
as great cities tumble and empires fall, | |
admist this confusion the Hunter stands tall. |
zuo qu : Sneap, Walkyier | |
Alone he sits | |
a vanquished Lord upon an oaken throne, | |
presiding o' er this conflict | |
that chills him to the bone, | |
for each tarnished blade that festers | |
is a thorn thrust in his side, | |
and His pain alone bears witness | |
to the folly of mankind. | |
What hope for a king with no kingdom to rule? | |
now his children desert him | |
regard him a fool, | |
and are bonded to progress | |
the plough and the scythe | |
that lay waste and leave barren | |
what beauty survives | |
though legends of power and glory suffice | |
for these ' latterdayheroes' | |
who live out their lives, | |
chained by conformity shackled by greed | |
and told to belive they don' t want to be freed. | |
The enemy within us | |
is well armed to spoil and rape, | |
and this mighty heart grows weaker with | |
each liberty they take, | |
so come ye from the shadows | |
do not tremble ' neath your beds, | |
at the mention of his name | |
hold high your weary heads. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
Both wicked and lustful | |
this God' s horny might, | |
He plays hide and seek | |
with the shadows of the night, | |
enthroned in high mountains | |
nobility crowned with the wisdom of ages | |
the forest his gown, | |
so nimble the fingers that pipe out the tune, | |
simple and pure is the song of the moon | |
that echoes each evening the ritual performed, | |
a lament for a God to a Devil transformed. | |
Are there men among us | |
prepared to face the fight | |
who' ll stand by their convictions | |
' gainst overwhelming might, | |
so do not hide like cowards | |
and await the bitter end, | |
come take your courage in both hands | |
and join with me my friend. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
A God of mant faces | |
yet none of them are known | |
existing in all places at all times | |
His glory shown in the majesty of nature, | |
let the Hymn to Pan be sung | |
for the myth is but a History Of A Time To Come. | |
Repeat stanzas 2, 3 4 | |
His name is eternal | |
His power unknown, | |
the ruler paternal | |
He watches alone, | |
as great cities tumble and empires fall, | |
admist this confusion the Hunter stands tall. |
zuò qǔ : Sneap, Walkyier | |
Alone he sits | |
a vanquished Lord upon an oaken throne, | |
presiding o' er this conflict | |
that chills him to the bone, | |
for each tarnished blade that festers | |
is a thorn thrust in his side, | |
and His pain alone bears witness | |
to the folly of mankind. | |
What hope for a king with no kingdom to rule? | |
now his children desert him | |
regard him a fool, | |
and are bonded to progress | |
the plough and the scythe | |
that lay waste and leave barren | |
what beauty survives | |
though legends of power and glory suffice | |
for these ' latterdayheroes' | |
who live out their lives, | |
chained by conformity shackled by greed | |
and told to belive they don' t want to be freed. | |
The enemy within us | |
is well armed to spoil and rape, | |
and this mighty heart grows weaker with | |
each liberty they take, | |
so come ye from the shadows | |
do not tremble ' neath your beds, | |
at the mention of his name | |
hold high your weary heads. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
Both wicked and lustful | |
this God' s horny might, | |
He plays hide and seek | |
with the shadows of the night, | |
enthroned in high mountains | |
nobility crowned with the wisdom of ages | |
the forest his gown, | |
so nimble the fingers that pipe out the tune, | |
simple and pure is the song of the moon | |
that echoes each evening the ritual performed, | |
a lament for a God to a Devil transformed. | |
Are there men among us | |
prepared to face the fight | |
who' ll stand by their convictions | |
' gainst overwhelming might, | |
so do not hide like cowards | |
and await the bitter end, | |
come take your courage in both hands | |
and join with me my friend. | |
For in each delve and greenwood, | |
far wiser creatures play, | |
and in their veins and sinews, | |
live the Gods of yesterday. | |
A God of mant faces | |
yet none of them are known | |
existing in all places at all times | |
His glory shown in the majesty of nature, | |
let the Hymn to Pan be sung | |
for the myth is but a History Of A Time To Come. | |
Repeat stanzas 2, 3 4 | |
His name is eternal | |
His power unknown, | |
the ruler paternal | |
He watches alone, | |
as great cities tumble and empires fall, | |
admist this confusion the Hunter stands tall. |