Now we are slaves to our own history
New architects of divine treachery
When it's over what becomes of you and I?
The ba*tard sons of a gentile line
There are open graves, desecration our human hands have made
I am throwing myself to the abyss, and the ashes prove the flame
This is what I know of faith
I offer this, some compensation for consequence
I test my method, some expression of my repentance
Now to the architect, construct of imagination
I leave his body as my free-will's evidence of a failed design
I am throwing myself to the jackals
What becomes of you and I?
The ba*tard sons of a gentile line
We're not the hollow vessels
We're not forgotten slaves
We're not an abstract concept
We are not open graves
Now watch it burn to the ground
Watch as I will tear it down
I will break this earth, I will watch it burn
This is offered to you:
Can you hear the sound of truth, it's calling out to you
I have one truth, given to me and offered to you
What is dead will rise again