Kindle low furnace of souls,
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So as to serve a torch upturned,
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Shrouded in bone and bloodlike tears,
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Of pure spirit, henceforth pay homage,
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This mirror image, the head of Christ,
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The serpent's tongue, the beat of bone,
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A crimson flow, a virgion vision,
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So pale and dreadful, our graven image,
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Is this time dead? Children of dust,
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So forlorn and so forsaken,
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In cloven tongue, this seeming fealure,
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Alas lay lifeless fallen cherubs,
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To endless years our thoughts stillborn,
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The scattered graves our minds will mourn,
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These ages past, Heaven forbid,
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We of the lower world in mourning.
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Father Forgive
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| Front Line Assembly |
