| There are no saints or teachers
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| no reason here nor rhyme
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| just the black robed missionaries of death
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| to toll
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| the bells of time
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| down along the border
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| upon a lonely road
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| I saw a man in flowing robes
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| his hair was snowy white
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| he said he was five hundred years
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| and his hands were cold as ice
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| from touching all the dead men
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| who’d played the highest price
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| for living on his mountains
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| and running in his grass
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| he said he’d come to take his payment
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| before the hour was passed
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| he was tired of seeing thieves upon
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| what once was his alone
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| and ashes in his valleys
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| where once the flowers had grown
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| he said he’d seen the foreign kings
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| come marching through the mud
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| to carve their image on the land
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| and write their names in blood
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| and leave a legacy of hate
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| upon this sleeping land
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| that she might never rise again
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| to bide the feeding hand
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| he’d seen the halo’d churches rise
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| he’d watched the heroes fall
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| to lie beneath their banners
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| while Judas stands so tall
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| where behind Caesar’s scarlet sword
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| a smiling Jesus stands
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| no thorns upon his hooded brow
|
| no holes into his shoulder
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| there’s no mark of shame
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| upon the sellers of the truth
|
| so none may know their name |