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Cold, ancient hands

Become a thing of antiquity

A paradigmatic reliquary

For the relics of our times

Older than one can know

Cold, ancient hands

Embracing solitary state…an armored saint

Sadness blossoming

Through thine spiritual hatred

Raise the blood scepter

Raise the blood scepter

Orgy in sin…comforting bloodlust

hail the blood scepter

blood through the fang-lined grin

Timeless it would seem

Yet, the hilt falls to a pale grasp

Whenever the crimson calls the force of breath

To dine, in sin, with the favor of the long forgotten

The scepter has returned home

In these ancient hands

Cold, ancient hands

now a thing of antiquity

slumbering reliquary

living relics

Older than one can know