Modern Grotesque

Noble preacher of the cardboard pulpit
Your sermon will be worshipped by rats
Broken bottles pull blood from your gums
And I want to taste Christ when we kiss

I'm a drifter who’s wandered through shafts of light
I am hunted by the sound of trumpets bellowing over the hills
Over the hills

Maybe I wasn’t speaking clearly enough, he said
Some things were never meant to be seen by lowly man
His eyelids were painted black
I am but clay and I am shaped by the words еtched in my skull

Maybe if I split myself widе open
Even you could believe the things I've seen
I'm praying to know who blows the trumpet
I'm praying to know who burned my name in the clouds

Sinner, believe in what I’ve seen
I've seen the face of the creator, and I fear his hunger, his teeth
What kind of fool would refuse to believe?
What kind of fool would refuse to believe?

He stood illuminated by the fire in the barrel
What was he burning there?
The air was thick with the stench of meat and hair

He raised his hand up to the clouds
The smoke clung to him in a shroud
A shard of glass glimmered in the fleeting rays of Sun
Then he brought it down, hard and fast between his ribs

One swift shot to the ribs
One swift shot to the ribs
One swift shot to the ribs
One swift shot to the ribs

He raised his hand again to touch the face of God
He just kept plunging downward and downward
Two in the hands, one in the feet, then one in his throat
Five holy wounds

The blood, how it flowed
The blood, how it flowed
The martyr, the modern grotesque

The blood, how it flowed
The blood, how it flowed
The martyr, the modern grotesque

The modern grotesque
The modern grotesque