歌曲 | Unyielding Anguish |
歌手 | A Hill To Die Upon |
专辑 | Holy Despair |
下载 | Image LRC TXT |
[Music by Adam Cook; Lyrics by R. Michael Cook] | |
“Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure.” | |
[- G.K. Chesterton] | |
...slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, | |
the religion of my life now a heresy: “lo Pan!” | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: “dance for me!” | |
Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
Despair, being mother to us all, | |
has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
Dark and warm, black and void, | |
the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
She let me back into her womb; | |
She let me present it was my tomb. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
bless me with anguish, | |
and break off my horns. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
exalt me with sorrow, | |
and crown me with thorns. | |
Here I sit in the Elms, | |
slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
of my life now a heresy: “lo Pan!” | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: “dance for me!” | |
Death has taken me out of spite | |
for my unyielding despair in life, | |
where my useless poems and songs | |
give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
This is silent end of my life, | |
worshipping the so-called god of the knife | |
Holy, Holy, Holy... |
Music by Adam Cook Lyrics by R. Michael Cook | |
" Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure." | |
G. K. Chesterton | |
... slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, | |
the religion of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
Despair, being mother to us all, | |
has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
Dark and warm, black and void, | |
the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
She let me back into her womb | |
She let me present it was my tomb. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
bless me with anguish, | |
and break off my horns. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
exalt me with sorrow, | |
and crown me with thorns. | |
Here I sit in the Elms, | |
slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
Death has taken me out of spite | |
for my unyielding despair in life, | |
where my useless poems and songs | |
give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
This is silent end of my life, | |
worshipping the socalled god of the knife | |
Holy, Holy, Holy... |
Music by Adam Cook Lyrics by R. Michael Cook | |
" Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure." | |
G. K. Chesterton | |
... slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, | |
the religion of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
Truth is found in the lifeless deep | |
where pain and anguish never retreat. | |
Despair, being mother to us all, | |
has summoned me with her death rattle call. | |
Dark and warm, black and void, | |
the blessed place where I am destroyed. | |
She let me back into her womb | |
She let me present it was my tomb. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy, despair, | |
bless me with anguish, | |
and break off my horns. | |
Holy, Holy, Holy despair, | |
exalt me with sorrow, | |
and crown me with thorns. | |
Here I sit in the Elms, | |
slain by my own sword. | |
The temple to myself abandoned, the religion | |
of my life now a heresy: " lo Pan!" | |
I chased the wind, | |
but I only caught my hoof. | |
I played my flute, | |
but no one danced: " dance for me!" | |
Death has taken me out of spite | |
for my unyielding despair in life, | |
where my useless poems and songs | |
give no right account of all my wrongs. | |
I am the worst, blest and curst. | |
This is silent end of my life, | |
worshipping the socalled god of the knife | |
Holy, Holy, Holy... |