Avarice and Lust,
Fall duly in their time,
And Wrath drinks the martyr’s blood,
as if it were his wine.
Pride steals the peacock’s feathers,
And Envy the Sphinx's eyes,
If they knew of your sweet voice,
they'd rip it from your tattooed side.
Exuding to us that dark river,
(That we could eat your flesh!)
Suckle blood from your heaving chest.
Believing, instead of life,
Our bleeding god was Death.
Please pardon our ravening,
Our starving searching souls,
We cling like whores to virgin kings,
Like maggots to the freshly slain,
We use your suffering to ease our pain.
"Behold, the God who bleeds!"
They mockingly would call.
Though false angels cannot know:
Blasphemy is the best sin of all.
"What use are priest?"
They'll laughingly insist,
"Who cannot partake in such a feast.
The silent slaughtered god,
Fed to his own unholy beasts.
Perhaps through muted screams,
his silent anguished cries,
He'll here their pleading vespers,
Forgive us, Dear God,
We livest while thou dies."