| Song | Unyielding Anguish |
| Artist | A Hill To Die Upon |
| Album | Holy Despair |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| [Music by Adam Cook; Lyrics by R. Michael Cook] | |
| “Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure.” | |
| [- G.K. Chesterton] | |
| ...slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, | |
| the religion of my life now a heresy: “lo Pan!” | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: “dance for me!” | |
| Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
| where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
| Despair, being mother to us all, | |
| has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
| Dark and warm, black and void, | |
| the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
| She let me back into her womb; | |
| She let me present it was my tomb. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
| bless me with anguish, | |
| and break off my horns. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
| exalt me with sorrow, | |
| and crown me with thorns. | |
| Here I sit in the Elms, | |
| slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
| of my life now a heresy: “lo Pan!” | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: “dance for me!” | |
| Death has taken me out of spite | |
| for my unyielding despair in life, | |
| where my useless poems and songs | |
| give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
| I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
| This is silent end of my life, | |
| worshipping the so-called god of the knife | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy... |
| Music by Adam Cook Lyrics by R. Michael Cook | |
| " Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure." | |
| G. K. Chesterton | |
| ... slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, | |
| the religion of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
| Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
| where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
| Despair, being mother to us all, | |
| has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
| Dark and warm, black and void, | |
| the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
| She let me back into her womb | |
| She let me present it was my tomb. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
| bless me with anguish, | |
| and break off my horns. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
| exalt me with sorrow, | |
| and crown me with thorns. | |
| Here I sit in the Elms, | |
| slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
| of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
| Death has taken me out of spite | |
| for my unyielding despair in life, | |
| where my useless poems and songs | |
| give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
| I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
| This is silent end of my life, | |
| worshipping the socalled god of the knife | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy... |
| Music by Adam Cook Lyrics by R. Michael Cook | |
| " Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure." | |
| G. K. Chesterton | |
| ... slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, | |
| the religion of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
| Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
| where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
| Despair, being mother to us all, | |
| has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
| Dark and warm, black and void, | |
| the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
| She let me back into her womb | |
| She let me present it was my tomb. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
| bless me with anguish, | |
| and break off my horns. | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
| exalt me with sorrow, | |
| and crown me with thorns. | |
| Here I sit in the Elms, | |
| slain by my own sword. | |
| The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
| of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
| I chased the wind, | |
| but I only caught my hoof. | |
| I played my flute, | |
| but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
| Death has taken me out of spite | |
| for my unyielding despair in life, | |
| where my useless poems and songs | |
| give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
| I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
| This is silent end of my life, | |
| worshipping the socalled god of the knife | |
| Holy, Holy, Holy... |