Sing me a song, pretty angel.
Sing me a tune only God deserves.
Not that I deserve its blessed sound
but because God never deserved it either.
Lead me down a path built of the bricks
and mortar of Via Dolorosa.
And in the end turn my joy into ash
and drown me as you wash your hands.

Witness with your betraying eyes
the crucifixion of hearts that you parade
around in the halls of your lies.
You’ve the wings to fly away and free us from
the ball and chain but in your sickness
you choose to linger so that even the knowledge of
your presence rests torment and ruin and soon desolation.

I fear the day of rapture.
Judgement will be the falling of pillars
that will otherwise stand eternity.

I yearn for the day of rapture;
the day of release and relief;
the day that I come to the realisation
that my mind does me futile anguish
and the day falseness bleeds from my words.

Now, wear me around your incandescent halo
or the plastic ****** around your neck.