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March!

March!

March!

Swift hooves of rigor mortis

Funeral sky over funeral steed

The graves are open

Bottomless quiver of plagues

The bow is drawn, and the arrow is nocked

The graves are open

The bow is bent, and the arrow is shot

We sing thy glory

Thou wild tide of death

We kneel before thee

Oh, pale deluge of marching bones

Marching bones

The big hand is on dying

The little on death

The seal is broken

By an avalanche of marching bones

Marching bones

Skull wagon, wall of coffins

Fields lush with gallows and Catherine wheels

The graves are open

And keen to show us the meaning of greed

Enchanted forest

Of Falun, red spears

We kneel before thee

Oh, rattling wave of marching bones

Marching bones