Wherefore snarls this knell at daybreak in leaden contempt of mortal strife?
Spiteful doom-sayer and bleak warning, a cackling fit to seal a life
Beckon me not home from war, beckon me not home from war
Beckon not at Mother’s door
From the fields where our souls soar from their bodies as they plunge
from their ranks into oblivion they will turn home; we will no more
The sun wakes red on the horizon, mirrored in a sea of blood
Beyond the hill, bells ring out horrors as I wade through th' accursèd flood
Engulfed within the price of war, as I drown in the prize of war
Can God still head each dying roar?
To the fields where a man draws to the ranks that drive him on
to an end within oblivion I once had turned to return no more
solo: Matt
As prayers cease, the chime redoubles, as time has left the funeral fields
O’er the hills the horrors pour, in from murder and from war
In from murder, in through murder, in with murder from their war
As I came in from murder, in with murder
Can God still heed each dying roar?