SOLACE - Bird of Ill Omen (The Brink LP)

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Bird of Ill Omen - The Brink (LP)
2019 Blues Funeral Records
Cover Art by Paul Vismara
Cover Animation by Josh Warwick
There is a hell so old
The papists had it papered over
Field of Elysium
Where hornets swarm as thick as clover
Antediluvian
The men who dwell within that crèche
Conceived before the word
Was transubstantiated flesh
Amongst their number
Haunt the alchemists of old
Those who turn the water into life
Can transmute your dreams to gold
To fashion the halos for the host
That strike the staffs of warring popes
That hang those heretics, on high
From flax and golden-braided ropes
And you will know that a life
Is but the breadth of a stone’s throw
That a hanged man’s eye sees nothing
In the dark of the belly of a starved crow
Hear the murder calling on the natural man
What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem?
Sister Sophia, crowned in a Witch's Gowan wreath
Gathered the darkness in her hand
And she tore it with her teeth
She slipped her hand into the wound
To address a bloodless void
Where all light is crushed in singularity
And the "word" has been destroyed…
And scattered into the sea
Like the ashes of a dead king
Like the fears I set free return to me
Upon the feathers of a black wing
Let the Empyrean sing...
That the curtain's falling on the natural man
What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem?
You've got to gather all the ones you love
You've got to get out while you can
Those who seek to rule
Will soon disseminate your plan
When we fall, we fall forever
Clawing blind at the atmosphere
Cut the throat of the black bellwether
For the end is here
Why must this burden fall to me?
There are none so blind they cannot see
You, who turned your face away from me
Who let the sky fall down
When they fall, they fall forever
Clawing blind at the atmosphere
Cut the throat of the black bellwether
For it all ends here
There is a ledge so steep
A dark so deep, in leagues descending
Inside, the godhead sleeps
Consumed by nightmare, never ending
People bow and they pray
And they scrape and they say
That the day is a gift
That you hold in your hand
How can such be endured
When it's all but assured
We are gears greased in blood
At the heart of the plan?
Stringing man upon rope
Making foe of our friend
Making sport of all hope
At the edge of a world without end
Hear the murder calling on the natural man
What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem?