When in the stir of the battle,
there comes a time
where the hero falls,
to the slaughter of his cattle.

How a hero falls
down to his knees,
to tired to fight,
no amount of will to bring him from his
knees.

How a hero falls,
with a great big thud,
and how pitiful the sound,
as they are buried under mud.

They cry in anguish,
the people once so proud,
as the hero has fallen,
and sees the coming shroud.

Let it be,
this hero of old,
that even as they fall,
a magnificent story was told.

But let it not be,
for when an angel is to weep,
that down from heaven comes,
the tears for us to keep.

The angels cry,
and embrace one another,
as they see the loss,
of a valiant noble brother.

Angels weep at the cruelty of it all,
angels weep at the bloodshed,
they weep when a hero falls.

A hero is no more
than a man like you or me,
a here is no less,
than anyone who wants to be.

A hero is made out of the strands of humility,
and are tested through tribulation,
and speaks with sincerity.

A hero is,
was
and forever will be,
those who put others before themselves,
those who are willing
to bend their knee.

An angel will weep
in joy that day,
when they find another hero
whose life has  little longer to stay.

The angels will sing
of unsung victories,
and sometimes they'll fall,
and lend a hand,
any time they so well please.

But God forbid,
we raise the dead,
for they've earn their rest
for they've done their best,
isn't it time we allow them this bed?

Under the ground
buried nice and deep,
under the ground,
their bones to keep.

For the heroes of old,
were just flesh and bones,
they lived, fought, and died like us,
their grave are marked,
if they're lucky,
at least by stone.

So a cheer for the living,
and a drink to the dead,
we sing with the angels,
with hopes to be with them
instead.

Aye, even heroes fall
down to their knees,
and the angels shall weep
to fill the seas.