We came offering our souls

In search of light it's easy to find shadows

At first all was clear as night

But this would prove to fade

As we pressed on deeper still, we found the land you sold as golden meadows

A blight ridden ashen ground and there we killed the truth

Then compassion died too

I know my death has a face

It is an image of you, and you're plentiful

There we would build our mounds

On these scared cold plains, where dawn had turned to ashes Amongst men with empty eyes grace can't be distinguished

In our quest for light we would advance and leave our wake in tatters

Just like death on a rampant ride on our zealous quest for you

There hung a rag for our wounds at the end of the line

It meant death to go back; it was a crime of the mind

When that whistle blew it was once more our time, to show our spirits were primed and our bodies were ripe

On the day we killed the truth and compassion died too

My death is an image of you in its grandeur and grace; divine, appalling!