Truth, beaten into the Catacombs, Truth remains...

And, as would a Seed, shall yet rise again.

The eternal Years of God are ever-present;

But Falseness, lance-stricken, writhes in gore-spattered Agony.

And, is buried deep, among His worshipers.

Hearken not to the black arrow-shaft, by Wrath,

And vile Hatred, nefarious cast forth,

That foul and hissing bolt of the Oldest Demon's scorn;

For, with those Righteous Souls shall dwell, at last,

The Triumph of tenacity, born.

Yes, although you have been, lowly, lain, below the Dirt of the Earth,

When all your Servants flee in haste and Fatal Fear,

Die nobly, full of goodly Hope and the Trust of Mortal Men,

Like those who gave their lives, for Liberty,

Treasured and cherished by Souls numbering Billions.

With some other, unseen hand... your great Sword you wield,

From some other staff, the matted Standard unfurls,

Until, from that Golden Trumpet's steely mouth, is sounded aloud:

The blast of Victory, from beyond the Crypt.