No glory or irony for me to seek
Sweet death for you and a rope in hand for your love to hang from a tree
He settled in your arm and soul and his spirit wondered and got lost in the empty sky
Like a thought in this breeze;
No water or love can wash this blood that moves down my spine and rests on my hands
Well no irony did I receive,
I remember he crawled and screamed as the slashes of Blade painted that pain
I do know that pain but there was irony that she receive
Here my soul rests by the crime I never committed or the blood I never tasted
Here I die with no irony printed by this tree