A heroine, a deity
on Heroin, or vanity
To jack their personality,
beyond normal humanity.
A crowd of massed humanity
bows down and worships diligently.
He's built a loyal following
and so they steer him thoroughly.
But jealous man plots from the pews,
no need for valid righteousness.
One slightly truthful word set free,
will turn the tides quite easily.
Our accusations need not be
what would bury mortal man.
The sins of our own deity
are tiny, but on these we stand.
We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands.
We throw stones if our gods take a stand.
We create and destroy our stigmata martyrs.
So once upon the podium,
a crucifix we then erect,
And nail our hero heartily,
hands and feet, and bind his neck.
The reason for our worship fades,
our Idol drenched in his own blood,
Forgotten are the virtues that
we valued beyond royalty.
We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands.
We throw stones if our gods take a stand.
We create and destroy our Stigmata Martyrs.
Such joy we dig his shallow grave,
anticipating pains to come.
We watch the wriggling dance of death,
and laugh light hearted at death's fun.
We've pounded out the joyous light.
Our savior's buried now for years.
A legend now of time gone by,
A martyr of forgotten tears.
We don't cry for the gods that die by our hands.
We throw stones if our gods take a stand.
We create and destroy our Stigmata Martyrs.