1 Cuts the sky with the fingers pale,
1 The sky empty, the sky of gray,
1 Halo, holy above the hair,
1 Adorned with thorns that breed decay,
2 Ripe branches of thy hands are dry,
2 Against the earth drenched with blood,
2 All of Rome will see thee shine,
2 A messiah for no god,
3 O, Christ of our bleak dismay,
3 Your eyes below, they dare not stray,
3 Stones will shatter, open graves,
3 You fall as the rest just pray,
4 Soon you perish, soon you die,
4 Taken by the wind by flood,
4 Ruined come the sacred shrine,
4 They spoke of thy father's love,
5 Savior of the ones of clay,
5 The last word on the last of days,
5 The revenge you will justly crave,
5 The last word for the ones to stay.
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