I bow down your precious icon, deity of self suppression,
This effigy of flesh, corporeal christi, nailed,
In submission to this false idol, seeking deliverance,
From this spiritual hierarchy, downward spiralling, a corrupt throne,
Of repression and guilt.
Out will be done,
Thy kingdom burn,
On my knees, before this tormented flesh, in irreverence,
In communion with this parasitic host of virtuous divinity,
This imperious creed bears testament to the failures of our mortality,
Righteous durance is our cross we bear in stations,
In stations of the lost.
Our will be done,
Thy kingdom burn thy kingdom burn,
Our will be done.
From your knees arise,
By your own hand, your god you scribe,
The earth shall inherit the meek,
Your god is dead.
(Lead - Amott)
Bound down, in God we¹re frussed, foul stature,
Icons embodied in flesh, we nail,
In servitude to deities fashioned in our self image,
Shadows of eternal strife cast by those who serve,
Serve a crown of pawns.
