Blood of the wretchèd one, cursed are their souls Drunk with their own fallacies, a mental parole Slaves to these the errored flesh, another mind to rape The force that paves the way, a deepened dusk relates I have regained the throne, nighted is your lorde I embrace that which I am, remnants of the dark sword Preposterous few, impaled mass, the thinkers are braindead Pretense that foresaw the end, or those who wept instead Force of Fire The Hand will slowly, faint of heart, descend to the black gate So a nebulous creation, dims its pale lore of fate The hooded elder ones will tell the sickening rasp of old The wizardry of ancient times, a decadence so cold Weapon wielding, demon yielding murderous machines Who set ablaze a mortal fire for casualties unseen The enemy released his minions and his darkest knights Consuming total phantom faith, for endless sinful strife Force of Fire They had crossed a godless time with Angel Symphonies Healing harps of Seraphim gave way to your decease Whitest Hand of Western hills set out for the conquest To kill the Eye in the name of Good the wound upon its breast Equestrians into the hills prepare to deem your death The Hand, misled by pious blood saw that nothing was left Livid was the demon beast ascending from the sea When shadows fell about the horrid, catatonic plea