The rocks are covered with moss Their disintergrating and dying slowly
They need to be lifted from the ruins (an old king's skull) They need to be thrown into the face of christ So they shall rest forever in history
Christ's children shall grow brittle
Gaining heat with her anger, ashes they'll become She is impregnated with the seed of hate Breeding minions for the rebirth of war With the brutality of ancient battle
Their weak pathetic souls shall wither
The axe heads sleeps in sheets of rust The only warmth is from the severed limbs But the blood from long ago evaporated And she needs the blood of her destroyers So remove the axe from its comfort And enrich her soil once again