Ninety-Three Lyrics

Weakened father, dying one
Displaced in this world by hawk-headed son
We have endured the aeon of the mother mild
Gazing adoring at the suckling child
Building a star-henge from the bones
Of gods abandoned by men in squealing droves
Promise fulfilled now they are dead
We are tethered to the sky by a crimson thread
This inauguration of blood and steaming brass
Accompanied by the shattering of stained glass

Hebraic pantheon in dust
Dispatched by the order of the Hands that Pluck
Rule of the meek
No more
A million stars under a new law:
WILL!

This Current's art is knowledge without thought
I receive and amplify the message the child has brought
With the voice of a swan
And hands of purifying fire
I pluck the strings of history
And Will my heart's desire.