Should I come empty handed? No redemption can I meet. Of no service to sovereignty, Lay no trophies at your feet.
The sorrows that the Earth bestow, Can no heaven balm? All the woe that cloaks and binds us, Canned 1000 virtues calm.
The hollow promise of a hollow psalm.
And their need for shepherds Will see them dully fleeced. Their hides provides, in bitter times Warmth for the priests.
Amid moth eaten scrim, Behind shrines the heavens, Its glow growing dim, Illuminate on secret shame, Casting shadows across a bog of dirt Which bears your name.
The sorrows that the Earth bestow, Can no heaven balm? All the woe that cloaks and binds us, Canned 1000 virtues calm.