Alone, he walks a sullied path,
Afraid to tempt God’s might wrath.
Too old to fall away from grace,
He settles for this lonely place,
And thinks of what he might have done
And thinks of what he might have done.

Alone, he sweeps with ancient pace,
And pours the putrid water out of a vase.
Flowers wither, and then turn to dust,
Much like his sacred vows turn into lust.
And he thinks of what he might have had.
And he thinks of how he might go mad.

They come on God’s day to pray for more,
As he feeds communion to a child-whore.
They kneel on pews and ask for more!
He kneels and begs to have the whore.

And he thinks about how he will burn.
And he thinks about how he will burn.

He’s settled for this forsaken place,
He lives alone in numbing grace.