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Strike by strike, lash nurses his back,

Driving humility into the restless brain.

Chains cut into the shreds of his flash,

Bringing reassurance along with the pain

And fear of endless curse and flame ahead.

He tries to beat them out every night again.

Only the screaming is filling the poor cell,

Where slave of the God raises his pray,

Begging to free him of carnal temptations,

Strengthen his spirit and give him the patience.

And scars on his back thereafter he wears

With pride but humility mask on his face.

How could he know the ways of the faith?

Following words of his madness, he failed,

Changing the spirit to meaningless rite,

Obediently, gutless slave tortures himself.

Thoughtlessly tortureing emaciated flash,

Tormented by hunger, he prays day and night,

And millions of churchmen are praying in vain,

Under the loud and pleased satan’s laugh

”Forgive me, father, I have sinned”

With penitential mug to the fat prist he speaks.

So freely dropping pious tears from his eyes

He does belive it is a true holy life.

And all of shake he’s waiting for absolution of the

Pope, and glad to kiss his hands when he recieves.

Strike by strike, he implements his penance again

Used living in the pain every day

In hope which he recieved from the prists

That executing will give all he needs.

And prists like one tell only single word

No one, but church can lead him to Lord

Don’t dare to raise your head above the rite

No one but only church is always right.