| It’s a cold claw that grasps your sanguine little heart
|
| Clenches and drenches your lounges with blood
|
| It’s a cold skull that holds your fragile little mind
|
| Soon crushed by the force that’s moving up from behind
|
| We are all sacrificed
|
| When death drapes the altar
|
| Soul putrification
|
| Suffer the manifestation!
|
| Temple of Skin
|
| Feel how rusty blades cut within
|
| Temple of man
|
| Torn to bits by death’s hand
|
| I will praise the grace of decay
|
| The grand celebration of the wicked
|
| I will haunt the Empyrean plains
|
| Grind pure plagues to perfection
|
| It’s a trembling hand that holds time’s dusty scepter
|
| Dictating a code that suffers the law of the grave
|
| It’s an infected blade that cut your heart in two
|
| The temple of skin is left dead to dream of you
|
| We are all sacrificed
|
| When death drapes the altar
|
| Soul putrification
|
| Suffer the manifestation!
|
| Temple of Skin
|
| Feel how rusty blades cut within
|
| Temple of man
|
| Torn to bits by death’s hand
|
| Slaves of death yet masters of life
|
| Children of darkness but tyrants for light
|
| We are the unspoken name, the untrodden path
|
| A union benighted by left hand wrath |