Her laughter, born of grief, a discord shrill,
A poisoned echo 'midst their solemn sigh.
Were Heaven's voice to break this mortal chill,
Her tongue alone would hold its righteous cry.

Each Sabbath wanes, a ghost of faith long dead,
And hollow words like ashes choke my prayer.
"Worship in shadows," thus my love has said,
The only shrine my soul finds solace fair.

"Born sick," they cry, with eyes turned cold and bleak,
Yet in this taint, a twisted beauty gleams.
Bid me be well... her smile, a promise weak.
Amen, amen, to embers in my dreams.

Take me to church, though every stone be false,
I'll kneel before their altar of deceit,
Confess those blackened sins, heed virtue's waltz,
And offer up my soul, a death most sweet.

If pagan gods I court in hushed delight,
She is my sun, the darkness I adore.
Their goddess craves a pyre, a sacrifice so bright –
What offering shall please her evermore?

A priest, perhaps, in robes of purest white?
Or jewels that gleam in their cathedral's gloom?
This holy hunger burns with blinding might...

Take me to church, let wickedness consume.
Grant me this death, oh Lord, break virtue's hold.
No king, no creed, when my dark rites commence.
In whispers and in sins, the truth untold,
I find my cleansing in this sweet offense.

In earthly mire, where earthly beauty sleeps,
A fragile grace those pious ones disdain,
Amen, amen... yet still my spirit weeps.
Take me to church, where my cursed heart remains.