The Puritan's Hand - Primordial

There is plague at the door

It begs to be among us

In the ashen dreams of crippled children

There is sickness in the soil

Nothing grows this side of Eden

Nor in the yearning abyss

That is all things to men’s hearts

Nor in the skeletal tug

Of motherhood that curses all with life

There is disease upon the air

It grasps at the throat of virtue

Rosary twist in leather hands

And offer prayer for me

And I have fought the God of men

For my whole life

Yet now we sit at the table together

Breaking bread and drinking blood wine

We spent the smallest hours

Staring into the void between sleep and dreams

That stretch from the womb to the grave

So feel the puritan’s dead hand as it throttles all life

So clasp your hands and bend your broken knees

For no one else will, and your confessions

Of worthless guilt, are not your saving grace

And so you seek redemption at the puritan’s hand

Is the hell you find here not enough for you?

To find your redemption