Hands held high
But your palms aren't open
They're gripped to the pole
attached to your king
as you wave him through polluted heavens
You say you seek the truth
I believe you when you say you're on your knees.
But with a flag as your blind fold you can't see it's not to pray.
Spewing washed up lines to the burnt out "sinner"
saying hell's what they deserve
But if we all act like you we don't need a god for us to burn.
Power that's predestined.
Torment that's praised.
Punishment of the innocent, still punishment of the depraved.
So when we tell our children about the blood of the lamb is it a result of the nails or just the blood on his hands?
In this land, the chorus that's sung
is "give us blood to cool our tongues."
If this is the captain of the ship, it's time for him to go down with it.
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