He walks in black, with no sun, no moon
Shadows don't follow, when the hours fly
He travels on beams, from darkness, of dross
Casting the stripe, that nails you down
Grab him! Hold him! don't let go!
The pit is deep, the iron is heart,
The future, is nothing with his whim!
Is there, good there, exempt of fire?
He listens to stars, when the sky is alight
And he laughs at the moon, when the giants dance
The middle, is not where it's supposed to be
Hey!
On altars where nothing, threatens the confessor by fire!
What do you think of him now?
What do you think of him now?
Is he a man, or a million men?
Is he a man, or a million men?
Is he a man, or a million?
Gells darkness can play, and then adjust
But he can answer, the devil's own work
And then bring his power, to bare on him
Who tries to capture, the sounds of man
Images of devils burn,
Acride smells of insence and flesh spiral to the breeze
Winding it's way to the nostrils of the waiting witches
Who sit, torch in hand, chanting hymns like those of Orpheus
The air is rent with cries being muffled,
As though a hand were across each insane mouth
And then, from the shadows comes floating,
Unnatural, the priest for whom they wait.
The music grows into a cacophone of screams!
The witches claw the earth, possessed as the priest points his spell
The night, now hideous with their presence!
They leave a mark, where the most intrepid avoid, shameless!
He calls the the fire, that gives him strength
He'll ignore the moon, but converse with the sun
He masters the wind, the rain, and their storms,
He can bring all together, to act, as one.
Grab him! Hold him! don't let go!
The pit is deep, the iron is heart,
The future, is nothing with his whim!
Is there, good there, exempt of fire?