I.N.R.I. — Acheron

You have been judged on your own accord Our final word seals your fate King of the Jews, the son of God Now condemned to death and hate

INRI, INRI, false prophet

Carry the cross upon your back And take it to where you'll die A crown of thorns, for you dear king With the other filth, be crucified

INRI, INRI, false prophet

Taste the blood that trickles from your ravaged brow As the sands of time run out Lord of nothing is what we consider you For victory is truly ours

Now you die