You want from me,
I give to you,
but all of this is only vision.

You cry for me,
I smile at you,
you burn for closing this division.

It was for me,
it was not for you,
a momentary touch of diversion.

What should I feel,
What can I do,
To absolve and make, some confession.

All the crosses and choirs,
of your elusive world,
all the vigils and the guilt you've hurled.

They touch me not,
I feel them through,
the guaze of your borrowed divinity.

At first they seemed,
like ancient rites,
that dwelleth in the mouth of the world.

Now?
They are the tiresome blights,
of souls too fetid to rise from squalor.

You'd have me kneel at the altar,
you'd have me drink from that cup,
and all this to touch your holy flesh,
and bind it with my own.

You tell me that our children must,
be joined with that body that you can sense,
and flow with that blood spilled for your sins,
our sins, now dear, our sins.

If my chalice is not enough,
if my blood that is monthly shed for thee,
and our new testament to the world,
is not enough, is not enough.

Then you to him I give you in this bond,
man to man, if so you are fond,
and take to flight for other bliss,
whose doors are more open than the gates of Dis.