Fence with me in the garden of Gethsemane,
under the light of a Judas moon,
blades flashing with weeping starlight,
as the sparrows sing our mournful melody.

I hear Christ praying in the olive grove,
as we dance upon this thorn strewn floor,
forgiveness, forgiveness is the prayer,
that falls on the deaf ears of the wind.

At this tragic table laden with imperial wine,
we speak under the stars of our last rites,
measuring out our coffins and our headstones,
and find ourselves at once alone with our pride.