| Dead angels are our friends | |
| May the demons smile again | |
| And may our virtue be superior | |
| Judge and jury, who's to blame | |
| And in the end it's all the same | |
| Rusty ruins with gold exterior | |
| Like quivers hung from clods of grey | |
| You're getting yourself in our way | |
| I turn the other cheek another day | |
| Lucienne | |
| Burn for me | |
| In a fire of a million degrees | |
| Break down what stands before us | |
| Genosides and Exodus | |
| Folklore of a bleeding Nazarene | |
| A paradise of parasites | |
| Moth holes in wings of white | |
| Hollow psalms of miracles unseen | |
| We are stillborn before the equinox of the Gods | |
| And shall rise from the sound of whipping rods | |
| Years we shall rise from the sound of whipping rods | |
| (the cherubs are falling, | |
| the demons are calling) |
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