The blade swings and cuts, it falters not,
For when the blade is swung, a soul is cut.
It is handled firm and questions not,
The hand in which its edge will rot.

The master is still and with gentle care,
He strips the mind and leaves body bare.
Of want and suffering, hope and loss,
Even those who believe in the anguish of the cross.

Footsteps he leaves to forever mark his way,
Pooled with the tears of those filled with dismay.
Look there, he's been here, this is his doing,
Another weary soul he is pursuing.

For master and blade they are one and the same.
In each soul they mark a blood-etched name.
Reaper, the ****** fear his coming and flee.
Lock your doors and abandon the key...