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There is plague at the door |
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It begs to be among us |
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In the ashen dreams of crippled children |
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There is sickness in the soil |
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Nothing grows this side of Eden |
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Nor in the yearning abyss |
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That is all things to men's hearts |
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Nor in the skeletal tug |
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Of motherhood that curses all with life |
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There is disease upon the air |
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It grasps at the throat of virtue |
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Rosary twist in leather hands |
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And offer prayer for me |
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And I have fought the god of men |
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For my whole life |
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Yet now we sit at the table together |
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Breaking bread and drinking blood wine |
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We spent the smallest hours |
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Staring into the void |
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Between sleep and dreams |
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That stretch from the womb to the grave |
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So feel the puritan's dead hand as it throttles all life |
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So clasp your hands and bend your broken knees |
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For no one else will, and your confessions |
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Of worthless guilt, are not your saving grace |
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And so you seek redemption at the puritan's hand |
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Is the hell you find here not enough for you? |
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To find your redemption |
