Hey Lord, I hear him.
He's not whispering.

"Dear Lord, I'm nothing but a pile of bones
picked clean by the crows
I want to go home."

Oh Lord what will you do?
I still hear him crying out for you.

"Lord, I know I'm a sinner at best
but please let my heart rest
they deserve to know."

No, he doesn't know how long it has been.
His heart has crumbled with his flesh.
His body won't be touched again.
Lord, if he is a sinner
then what does that make me?
I don't pray. He pleads to you on broken knees.

Lord what have you done?
His voice has left my head.
Have you shown your mercy and let him rest?
Or did you take away my senses
so I no longer have to deal with the dread
of a sinner's regretful heart again.

Skeletons rage when there’s no rain
'cause their bones have to suffer another day
of shameful decay.
All worms, insects, and maggots
have left with the flesh
and flowers like to wind themselves
around boney necks.
Do you think he knew how much time he had left?
He has eternity
beneath the dirt.
He has serenity
when interred.
But he lays atop fallen leaves
at the edge of a clearing that views the sky.
Will the stars cry for him?
I won’t tell if they lie.
Will the Heavens open up their gates?
To him I think they’d rather hate.
Will the aching bones get washed away
to somewhere only demons play?
I think he’s wary of the angels
and not yet known to those fallen,
except the leaves,
they know him well.
They are his bed and blanket.
His comfort and his hatred.
Bones rattle when the winds bellow.
Lord, it is his time to go.
Please Lord, just let him go.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Rallying in hordes of horses,
Assassins from malsI pillaged us,
Maraud they did our temples.

Merely by converting out from Đhärm,
And reading the Satanic Verses,
Never you do forget your roots,
Demolish the original temple they did,
India is Bhāräŧ and will always be,
Right now the Hïnđū people celebrate.
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