1. HE IS NOT IN A BETTER PLACE

The spear of naught
Has pierced his heart
Flames of the earth
Rot
As the veil falls
Chains of soil call
May your hymns
Be cast forth
May the winds of time
Howl his name at night
O cloak of black
Will never call him back
He is not in heaven


2. PILLARS OF FILTH, FROM WHICH MAN HUNG HIMSELF

The sun burns those
Who lie in dark
The pleasures of agony
Are those I carve in flesh
I writhe in disgust at life
I find no peace within this form
Hung from the antlers of eternity
Endlessly gored
The prize of night is dawn
The plight of the earth is ours
The eyes of the universe
Catch all in their gaze
Thoughts become form
As pain weeps from thy sores
On my palms
Symbols of devotion
From where I have crawled
The sun it burns