Swine Of The Cross — Cryptopsy

Man-made doom bled death from the sky; to all but a few, salvation was denied Heavenly father, son and holy ghost, save your servants (those of us who aren't toast)

The not-yet-dead discovered that to be a nuclear family means a whole new thing; All-too-trusting shambling pseudomorphs put their trust in a man of the cloth

Make them hate you, rotting cleric... Remember, you are pu of my loins, you are pus

Give voice to your left side, let me in: I've sawn the seeds of your redemption; In subhumanicide, I am your guide: seventy-seven times make them die

The sun is shining on a brand new day Blackened corpses smolder where they slain; Self-flagellation prompts him to confess: Bless me father, for I made this mess

Immolation meant to purify sin wracked souls Let diseased bodies die; survivors twice lost: Betrayed in fire, by the Swine of the Cross