The drop of blood
From the eye of God
Will cleanse the viscous stain of mud.
The bell of fate
Will make you hate
The shame of life you have betrayed.

Sometimes you think
That I have been
A part of you in times of sin;
That time is dead,
And I have fled
Your grasp to seek the sun instead.

And now I bless
Your sacred mess;
I'll claim the things you don't possess.
The stain of blood
On your T-shirt
Declares you're dead, proclaims you're shot.

You'll resurrect,
And I suspect,
That you'll be stripped of all respect.
You'll live alone
Beneath the stone,
Behind the stage, in shadowed loam.