Many sons have bled the earth,
Nailed to hope and salted worth,
With every cry, the sky forgave—
But still we hunger for the grave.

The prophets burned, the preachers wept,
The angels screamed while sinners slept.
The lamb was slain, the dove was drowned—
Yet still we pierce the thorn-crowned crown.

So now, the heavens seal their scroll,
The holy well no longer whole.
God is tired.
God is done.
No more the bleeding of His Son.

This time, no chalice. No broken bread.
No light descending on the dead.
This time, He sends a darker flame—
A sorcerer who bears no name.

He comes not clothed in white or gold,
But in the ashes of the old.
A beard of storms, a gaze of night,
With runes carved deep by second sight.

He does not beg, He does not plead.
He conjures truth from secret seed.
A crucifix of blackened oak—
Where fire sleeps beneath the smoke.

The crowd still gathers, stone in hand,
But falters at his quiet stand.
For this one does not die for them—
He dies to end the lie of men.

A martyr still, but not for grace—
He’s come to hex the human race.
To raise the veil, to crush the throne—
And make the soul its rightful home.

So mark this day, O trembling sky,
The last time God will watch men die.
Not love this time, but wrath and spell—
A wizard comes to break the hell.