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 duelly 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 thet 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.