There in pastures of blood stand the people,

The community of God,

Dancing around the hang man's noose,

Where dangle heathens of originality.

Beaten with sticks and crowns of thorns,

The bodies bloated from the sickness,

The plague of free-thought.

The morose eye watches it all,

The children of Christ,

The shepherd of violence,

Killing all those who oppose the Will.