Besedila: Eighteen Visions. Slipping Through The Hands Of God.

Tears fill my eyes, tears of sorrow
As I watch the rosewood heal from the hole
I just burned, bow down

This ugly scar will mend itself again
But when will its figure die? Pierced through the heart
I watch the red elixir spill from the center of its life

I depict eighteen visions for its demise
Not even water can bring back
Two thousand years of life I've watched die

Rise to your glory on the third day
You are not my Christ
Rise, Utopia, damned to hell

I rest this figure of ideal perfection
There will be no funeral for this profane existence
Always on the left hand path