We've cried to the sun, the moon and the fathers.
Looked down upon those not drenched in our waters
As we stripped our children of their innocence and our mothers of their wombs
And gave birth to a generation refined by doom.
Perhaps if they burn, their souls will turn to gold
And we can pave the streets of heaven for the Gods that we hold
On pedestals of bones of those dead and forgotten
For the one and only son--the one and only begotten.
But who will judge our Gods when worlds cease to exist?
When the last breath is taken from an air filled with sin?
When we find that all purity was buried with our youth,
Not hidden behind clouds that obstructed our view?
Who will persecute the Gods and sentence them to life
As mortals and force them to adjust to flesh and strife
And feel the pain of a wound deeper than skin,
One that was cast upon you by an unforgivable sin?
When the last days come, we'll find ourselves in prayer
Hoping that mythical tales held some truth of a savior,
As if one isn't enough, or maybe one was too much.
Who will take on the duty of being the Gods' judge?
Some imprisoned us in chains. Others watched freedom make us corrupt,
Yet we still gave them everything--a sort of sacrificial love.
Nothing will change on Earth or in the Gods' luxurious den
'Til tables turn and Gods are forced to walk the paths of men.
