Rip the flesh with our gnashing teeth. Search the inside of the dying beast. From the book of Enoch, to the Bible codes, we spend the final days looking for that gold and when we find it, how will we know?
Will it cleanse the rot from our souls? Will it help to save us from the fires below? Throw the stones and smash the citadel. Search the ruins of the fort that fell, trying to hold on to what slips through our hands, like using a sieve to move the sands over, under, inside, and out.
A fanatic's zeal eases any burden of doubt, quest for the blood of Christ peerlessly on the blade of a knife. Try to ensure life without end living in fear of committing mortal sin. Hack down all the forest trees, search the horizon for what is now seen.
Take the pick and drive it into the soil, dig without hands until we find the oil. Marching forward, faith obscures what's wrong. For at the end of the day the lamb and the goat are still fused as one.