Said the sun down to the people,
Redemption shall rise in a white-washed steeple.
Where you shall fall to your knees to my light,
I shall protect your souls from this cursed blight.
Read the words of my teaching,
And the path shall be reaching,
To welcome you in open arms; Yet,
Crossed are the fingers that hide the sweat.
For what is a cult if there is no voice,
These people are blind, but they have the choice.
For they seek clarity from leather bound stories,
To fill the pain they've felt with subtle glories.
