Empty hands of worthless men
Filled with pride are worthless men
Joyous in delusion are the sons of the plague

Standing next to the angel
He who stands outside the light
Weaving three nets, the apostate; the insurgent

The seraph of acrimony
Ally of the serpent, yet standing boastful
Locked out of the heart of the Great One

He passes judgement of his own
A dozen accomplices, shrouded in shadow
Summoned, they trudge a path of carnage

Writhing bodies, golden rain
Shrill cries of scorn cut their sanction
A prophet of the wicked, of sorcery and devilry

Wraiths of deceit follow him
Welcome among them are the men of lust
Taunted by the living, belonging with the Vile

The fair seek to blind him
All his sons that vex and stray
They shall swarm around him, chanting for his acumen: "Belial!"