| There’s a righteous band that’s marching
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| They’re beating on drums, and even speak in tounges
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| They’re passing plates around
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| Clothed in garments of the sun
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| Bringing the weight of everything to bear
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| They’re calling everyone
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| Out to comb the fields for stones
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| Eyes casting for harlots and for heretics
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| Heels worn down from the road
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| Onstage rocking back and forth
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| The choir’s rattling swords, they stomp and shake the boards
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| The rest, they sing along
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| Cheering for a firefight, praying for the end
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| Praisers of oblivion go round a bend
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| Not to be a downer here, but I have my doubts
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| See here a tide and river turned about
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| You, who sought the water’s purity
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| Drank deep as the voices of the virtuous rang out, aloft in air
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| Come, and I’ll take you outside
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| Walk with me to out beyond the barriers of what is said and known
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| Bones and lodestones might be found
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| On ground that’s not sown nor plowed, but opened up
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| Like eyes to sight and sound
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| All around, through all the towns, word spread of a fire
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| A blaze had brought the building down, but who conspired
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| Right out in the daylight, none saw him there
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| The ashen rider on a shadow mare |