We are the true believers, we are the chosen ones,
We want your pretty children, your daughters and your sons,
Bring them to our party, let them drink our wine,
Tomorrow we will take them to work our deepest mine.

We are the source, we are the light, we are the truth you hear,
You want our benediction, we baptise you with fear.
Leave the weeping women with the thorns, the nails, the blood,
Turn back towards the coming storm, leave the hill and walk away,
Follow the path to the garden where the last words rose to the sky, 
The stone rolls back, the cave is dark but no shrouded spirit lies.

So pray and offer everything,
Touch the hem and kiss the ring, 
Bow your ragged head down low,
You have nowhere left to go.
Nothing left for you to touch,
No golden face to kiss,
The ghost of light
From a dying flame,
A shadow from a candle
Flickering on the wall.

The bell speaks in lugubrious voice
Trembling sepulchral shadows,
A censer swings in perfumed arcs
On clinking golden chains,
Dark shapes murmur arcane chants
Wrapped In swirling incense cloaks,
Candles burn in lamps above
The shroud of deathly smoke.

As darkness falls
In the vaulted hall
Carving shadows
On the faces
Of long-dead stones,
A faint voice sings
The final hymn
Somewhere behind the sun,
We are the true believers, we are the chosen ones.