Blessed are those who write their own scriptures, for they shall be kings of the new world. Since the dawn of civilization The socalled men of god Have been lost in their obscurities Their words would lead to sorrow Commanding the weak to follow A design for tyrants to control and enslave We subdue not the voice inside us We only bow down on our prey Fire rains down from the heavens Pouring down on those too weak to learn On the ruins of the dead religion Standing tall as the enslaving doctrines burn Blindly the sheep walk to their doom, for their leader came not to bring peace, but a sword. To lead the flock astray Each cult began their game They created the face of evil and gave it a name We take their game and squeeze it Until it breaks in shards And under the remains the truth will survive We are the child who questions sincerely And in our eyes a mirror framed
sincerely, weak, game, subdue, framed