Wayward Confessor - Hexvessel

King of death

Your unshackled ghouls are tumbling on the borders

Now race through goblet moons of ash

Like convicts on the loose

Tearing down my inner walls

Like a hymnbook’s tattered cover

As all my abandoned unions

From a vast and monstrous church

Burn the confessor, the ancient woods

Of each mans work are felled by the devils craft

Damn the confessor, his name is barbed

With a war of ins that drip on heavens tongue

A saint that starts to fall on squawking claws

Of an unknown predator

Lost to tribes of insane hordes

And devoured in a sickly desert

Of vows that brak and bend

And suffocate… and frighten

Th thorn in his side, the holy ghost

The host that heals the chosen

And oh my congregation

Do you think that we will forget?

Away with your redemption

For I don’t know how to forgive