Unworthy to die as your own prophet

Disdain the mimic of a false god's death

The wood is planted

Firmly in the ground

The feet turned to the sun

Your head pointed to hell

Your sky's now a desolated

Land

You will stretch out your hands

And another will dress you

And take you where you do not want to go

Let him bleed

On the inverted cross

Won't be a loss

"Cum esses lunior. cingebas te et ambulabas ubi volebas. Cum autem senuens extendes manus tuas et alus te cinget et ducet quo tu non vjs"

You will stretch out your hands

And embrace your useless death

A pool of your own blood

Will crown your head

Let him profusely bleed

Let him ingloriously bleed

Let him f*cking bleed

Let him f*cking bleed