You've got the blood on your hands
But got no right to bleed
Your innocence makes me laugh
I don't have what you need
You search for the solution
I know you'll never find
Your faith has left you with an imitation of Christ

Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator
Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator

The spirit takes hold of your body
And you cry out
Thrown into convulsions
You're foaming at the mouth
Searching for something sacred
You look but all you find
Is just an imitation your god has left behind


Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator
Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator

Transcending the tempral realm
I will not put faith in those who call themselves poets
Nor worship false idols


Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator
Grotesque the lowest
Common demoninator

What else could she do to open their eyes?
The blind shall see
The deaf shall hear
The dead shall rise
RISE!