A Reading From The Book Of Lyrics

This masquerade is a massacre. Another stained-glass
serenade. These halos hang
over our heads like vultures circle their prey. Your
hands are washed white but
your eyes are the darkest I've seen. Your hands are
washed white. Foul deeds
will rise like ghosts of gods through the steeples. Foul
deeds will rise like
smoke and soot from the stacks. Foul deeds will rise.
Heracy fills our lungs as
we breath it. Foul deeds will rise like the incense that
burns. You're running
this race, but you've been running the wrong way. Dark
shepherds have led their
sheep astray. They demonize, rationalize, for what? For who? Foul deeds will
rise like ghosts of gods through the steeples. Foul deeds
will rise like smoke
and soot from the stacks. Foul deeds will rise. Heracy
fills our lungs as we
breath it. Foul deeds will rise like the incense that
burns. Call the choir to
light the pyre. Call the choir to light the fires. Your
hands are washed white
but your eyes are the darkest I've seen. Your hands are
washed white but this
place smells of deceit. This burning fire will never be
enough to quench your
blood-lust.

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