Maran ‘atha’ (Our Lord has Come)

Suck the poison from the breathing wounds
That open deep, just like a silent tomb
The blood is slowly flowing, black and thick
As your body trembles when you heavily breathe.

High on the cross, hanging from the rusty nails
The sun has scorched your skin and dried your face
You thought the sins of mankind will be forgiven
By sacrificing yourself like the mythical scapegoat.

Your people betrayed you by kissing your cheek
You offered them absolution and agreed to die
Hoping to resurrect and rise from the grave
Like a restless ghost to haunt the minds of men.

Now, waiting and praying to finally die
As the vultures circle around your soon to be corpse
You prey to your father above to grant you salvation
But all you receive is the wind on your face.

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