[Verse] Beneath the worn-out tapestry of stone, there lingers still a past of ancient years; the moans of one lone moment, filled with tears, that from a pleading mouth were once made known. There, where the nailed pain claims flesh and bone, the hands and feet of one with sacred sight, remains the past—a vulture stained in blight, escaping guilt it never could atone. A guilt that still awakens sorrow deep, the living tears that Mary has to weep. [Chorus] For those whose goodness stirs a cruel fate, there still are wooden crosses standing bare, with shining nails that glimmer as they wait in any place—abandoned to despair— to leave all goodness firmly fastened there, turned from the watching eyes of sin and care. [Verse] After such hatred, after all that rage, the wind smells thick with death and burning fire, upon the thorn-filled summit, bleak and dire. Yet still survives an ideal through the age, that offers daily pardon, soft and clear, though few believe or truly see it near. [Pre-chorus] And while the word gives little light to guide, uncertainty grows vast and spreads inside. [Chorus] And so the crowd decides which path to tread, still following the doubt they can’t outgrow, through wins and losses equally they’re led— all part of one’s own Calvary below— that turns the human soul, in final role, into a beast that loses all control.
