Backsliding, broken off the tree How does one repair an ancient prophecy Judgment begins with the good As the wicked wait in scents of wood And crooked generations cut all hearts Chiseling salvation is an art Fiery trial lit by lamps, powered by the sweat of soul Smile, He only tempts until you lose all control Sunshine days are over, all that remains is light- The quest thatβs worth a million murdered brides The holy one is stuck in traffic As future spawn make a racket He canβt come back until no one Mourns his death under the sun Only then will skies depart- Bronze mountains, horses stark Then all the fiends will fall out of the clouds Like motherβs water breaking on a shroud