Blood of the wretchèd one, cursed are their souls
Drunk with their own fallacies, a mental parole
Slaves to these the errored flesh, another mind to rape
The force that paves the way, a deepened dusk relates
I have regained the throne, nighted is your lorde
I embrace that which I am, remnants of the dark sword
Preposterous few, impaled mass, the thinkers are braindead
Pretense that foresaw the end, or those who wept instead
Force of Fire
The Hand will slowly, faint of heart, descend to the black gate
So a nebulous creation, dims its pale lore of fate
The hooded elder ones will tell the sickening rasp of old
The wizardry of ancient times, a decadence so cold
Weapon wielding, demon yielding murderous machines
Who set ablaze a mortal fire for casualties unseen
The enemy released his minions and his darkest knights
Consuming total phantom faith, for endless sinful strife
Force of Fire
They had crossed a godless time with Angel Symphonies
Healing harps of Seraphim gave way to your decease
Whitest Hand of Western hills set out for the conquest
To kill the Eye in the name of Good the wound upon its breast
Equestrians into the hills prepare to deem your death
The Hand, misled by pious blood saw that nothing was left
Livid was the demon beast ascending from the sea
When shadows fell about the horrid, catatonic plea