I find your God and I make him cry,
Sobbing like a child,
I will gut you and your God,
I will not be meek and mild.
The Lord is the soft belly of a fish,
My knife dragged side to side,
If that truly was his plan for me,
I’ll open him up wide.
I drown the good Lord in the styx,
Hold his head down deep,
His cries for mercy obsolete,
Rejoice! The good lord weeps
Over his own fading heartbeat,
His grace wanders astray,
“How must I atone for this?”
You must pray, pray, pray.
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