Godspeed On The Devils Thunder
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Lyrics
"This is the moment I go to God..."
Burning like derision,
on the prism of night.
Still squirming from the sermon,
those determined parasites.
Meant to overpower,
and bedizen his light.
He paced his tower prison,
with a dissonant appetite.
The moon was black!
Devil may care!
Three times he'd glared,
before his judges.
Darkening there,
with a Wormwood mind,
and a gullet of poison.
Asked, he thought the court a farce,
his tongue as sharp as glass.
A bastard to the last!
This truth assassin tautened,
his claws at the ruinous cast,
flexing vexation at clerics aghast.
In uproar he caused,
the cross to be masked.
And the hex of exile,
from God's Kingdom passed.
Back in the mirror,
shattered vanity died.
The curse even clearer,
on the sanity side.
Banished from the lavish,
tracts of paradise.
From Heaven's shored,
poured to the sore divide.
The moon was black!
Devil may care!
Their thunder sundered,
all his veils.
Thickening there,
his beligerent pulse,
to a sickening crawl.
Yes, he'd fostered wickedness,
fed vipers at his breast.
Inflicted death's caress!
So now to suffer!
He'd burn, discern,
that his second turn.
Would last for eternity,
in reckoning flames.
That night his plight,
marched in demented Parades,
o'er a rainbow of black magic scars.
The blood ran to fear,
turned to torment in spades.
Deep in the sleep,
of this heretic, barred.
The nightmares were livid,
occultist, depraved.
His epiphany struggled to come.
But dawn found him there,
redemptive, prepared.
Like Christ to Golgotha,
his face to the sun.
All fears were smeared,
when Joan had appeared,
in a shower of tears.
Last vestige of innocence.
Yearning for her,
vision of divinity.
Of her miracles,
and dreamt lyrical deeds.
He would meet her,
at the pyre as the fire kissed.
And together they'd climb to God,
entwined in bliss.
Devil may care!
He awed the court,
with a sworn confession.
Quickening there,
his radiant death,
and acute renewal.
Thus the end was glorious,
he went like Jesus trussed,
to shadow and to dust.
At the stroke of seven!
And with thieves at both his hands,
the Reaper of these lands,
wept with holy plans,
as he choked to Heaven.
Burning like derision,
on the prism of night.
Still squirming from the sermon,
those determined parasites.
Meant to overpower,
and bedizen his light.
He paced his tower prison,
with a dissonant appetite.
The moon was black!
Devil may care!
Three times he'd glared,
before his judges.
Darkening there,
with a Wormwood mind,
and a gullet of poison.
Asked, he thought the court a farce,
his tongue as sharp as glass.
A bastard to the last!
This truth assassin tautened,
his claws at the ruinous cast,
flexing vexation at clerics aghast.
In uproar he caused,
the cross to be masked.
And the hex of exile,
from God's Kingdom passed.
Back in the mirror,
shattered vanity died.
The curse even clearer,
on the sanity side.
Banished from the lavish,
tracts of paradise.
From Heaven's shored,
poured to the sore divide.
The moon was black!
Devil may care!
Their thunder sundered,
all his veils.
Thickening there,
his beligerent pulse,
to a sickening crawl.
Yes, he'd fostered wickedness,
fed vipers at his breast.
Inflicted death's caress!
So now to suffer!
He'd burn, discern,
that his second turn.
Would last for eternity,
in reckoning flames.
That night his plight,
marched in demented Parades,
o'er a rainbow of black magic scars.
The blood ran to fear,
turned to torment in spades.
Deep in the sleep,
of this heretic, barred.
The nightmares were livid,
occultist, depraved.
His epiphany struggled to come.
But dawn found him there,
redemptive, prepared.
Like Christ to Golgotha,
his face to the sun.
All fears were smeared,
when Joan had appeared,
in a shower of tears.
Last vestige of innocence.
Yearning for her,
vision of divinity.
Of her miracles,
and dreamt lyrical deeds.
He would meet her,
at the pyre as the fire kissed.
And together they'd climb to God,
entwined in bliss.
Devil may care!
He awed the court,
with a sworn confession.
Quickening there,
his radiant death,
and acute renewal.
Thus the end was glorious,
he went like Jesus trussed,
to shadow and to dust.
At the stroke of seven!
And with thieves at both his hands,
the Reaper of these lands,
wept with holy plans,
as he choked to Heaven.
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