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• Artiste: Primordial
• Titre: The Puritan's Hand
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There is plague at the door It begs to be among us In the ashen dreams of crippled children There is sickness in the soil Nothing grows this side of Eden Nor in the yearning abyss That is all men's hearts Nor in the skeletal tug Of motherhood that curses all with life There is disease upon the air It grasps at the throat of virtue Rosary twist in leather hands And offer prayer for me And I have fought the god of men For my whole life Yet now we sit at the table together Breaking bread and drinking blood wine We spent the small hours Staring into the void Between sleep and dreams That stretch from the womb to the grave So feel the puritan's dead hand as it throttles all life So clasp your hands and bend your broken knees For no one else will, and your confessions Of worthless guilt, are not your saving grace And so you seek redemption at the puritan's hand Is the hell you find here not enough for you? To find your redemption