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Herald of the new gospel, The blood moon rises high;

illuminates our ritual, blesses our sacrifice.

Between the poles of nations plundered and the holy lands,

we feel our grip constricting the living more every day.

I'll suffer my soul to rest within the overtaker's hands,

so long as I have nothing more to gain.

Each child a new delicacy, I learn of hunger's meaning.

Torn between meat and my feelings, I spurn my duality.

Force-fed reality, Beckoned by my primal instincts.

I succumb to every feast, I feed to no relief.

Gluttons, every one of us, who've never had our fill;

proud new brutes, so murderous, not knowing what it means to kill.

Between the shores of loyalty in this river of most profane desires,

a lawless waltz between the stepping stones is forced by the current's ire.

Faded is the path that delivers me from the undertow's pry,

yet the savage wrath I wish to inflict has, thus far, kept me dry.

Herald of the new gospel, The blood moon rises high;

illuminates our ritual, blesses our sacrifice.

I've grown weary of the spill of blood drained out of spite.

There's always more to kill that I may keep my life.