The Alchemists Head - Primordial

We are in deep water now

Our rotten bond is a sickness of soul

How we loathe and envy

All murderers in equal measure

What pale god is this

Whose robes you wear

What iconoclasm upon the

Wings of pestilence

Has swept the halls of the pious

And dulled your blade

As you prepare for death

When he had spoken

Stretch out your arms

Embrace the flame of fire

He was consumed and arose

You will have this world

Whether you will it or not

In hell’s cold light we will sit

And judge them all

If there is a reward for this

When shall it come?

When shall the trumpet sound

Ominous and deep

To the ends of the earth