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!