Beneath a trembling altar stone, the buried choir weeps. Their hymns collapse in fractured breaths no sanctity keeps. Shards of faith pierce broken ground, corrupting every trace. What once was carved in holy light now festers into waste. A cradle forged from severed oaths trembles in the void. It nurses silence, cold and raw, where all hope is destroyed. Angels with their faces torn drift through the poisoned air. Their wings dissolve to ashen threads, their eyes stripped to despair. Grave or grace!? The sacred scripts ignite themselves, bleeding into night. Letters twist to writhing worms that choke the last of light. A sermon carved in dying flesh spreads rot through every bone. The faithful kneel but find instead a kingdom overthrown. A labyrinth of shattered grace coils underneath the shrine. Its walls breathe out a rancid truth, no soul remains divine. The relics melt in molten fear, dripping down the cross. Their essence feeds the trembling soil that hungers for the lost. Grave or grace!? And at the final threshold where belief must face its fate. A single word is etched in stone: grave or grace? Grave or grace, the line is torn. Grave or grace, all faith is worn. Grave or grace, no soul can flee. Grave or grace, both end in misery.