Pacing in front of your meek congregation
Licking your lips in lofty oration
You sharpen your claws, enforcing the laws
And the lies of eternal salvation
To keep them in line while you do your deceiving
You threaten the souls of the blind and believing
The Lord will forgive, if, as long as they live
They spend their days guilty and grieving
Silver crosses, your drying palm
Tokens of the trade
For giving them their sins, you calm
Souls upon which you've preyed
You swing across and hypnotize
To punctuate your spell
With the cross you tease and dot their eyes
And sentence them to hell
Obsessed with controlling how others should be
You spread the disease of the Heavenly Three
Your book is your blade in this selfish crusade
And you're pointing its pages at me
You make up the rules and happily brandish the list
Forbidding your people the pleasures by which they exist
Confessing the sins of their bodies' natural behavior
They punish themselves in the name of your saccharine savior
