Now we are slaves to our own history,
New architects of divine treachery.
When it's over what becomes of you and I?
The bastard sons of a gentile line.
There are open graves, desecration our human hands have made.
I am throwing myself to the abyss, and the ashes prove the flame.
This is what I know of faith.
I offer this, some compensation for consequence.
I test my method, some expression of my repentance.
Now to the architect, construct of imagination,
I leave his body as my free-will's evidence of a failed design.
I am throwing myself to the jackals.
What becomes of you and I?
The bastard sons of a gentile line.
We're not the hollow vessels,
We're not forgotten slaves.
We're not an abstract concept.
We are not open graves.
Now watch it burn to the ground.
Watch as I will tear it down.
I will break this earth, I will watch it burn.
This is offered to you:
Can you hear the sound of truth, it's calling out to you.
I have one truth, given to me and offered to you.
What is dead will rise again.