The Puritan’s Hand

There is plague at the door
And it begs to be among us
In the ashen dreams of crippled children

There is sickness in the soil
Nothing grows this side of Eden
Nor in the yearning abyss

That is all things to men's hearts
Nor in the skeletal tug
Of motherhood that curses all with life

There is disease upon the air
It grasps at the throat of virtue
Rosary twist in leather hands
And offer prayer for me

And I have fought the God of men
For my whole life
Yet now we sit at the table together
Breaking bread and drinking blood wine

We spent the smallest hours
Staring into the void between sleep and dreams
That stretch from the womb to the grave
So feel the puritan's dead hand as it throttles all life

So clasp your hands and bend your broken knees
For no one else will, and your confessions
Of worthless guilt, are not your saving grace

And so you seek redemption at the puritan's hand
Is the hell you find here not enough for you?
To find your redemption