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lyrics

In the Chapel of the Morning Light: the rising sun, the early flight; the birds of dawn rise to the hymns; the birds of night dream in the din. And liars pull on liar's clothes to go to where all the liars go and trade their little dimming souls for a pocket full of gold. Children wake in light of blue and watch their fathers' shiny shoes rush to do what liars do; around their necks the liar's noose. And bitter mouths spit bitter words, while other voices go unheard or shouted down because they voice something different; perhaps a choice.
In the Chapel of the Morning Light mothers shiver and cry in fright and just like Judas, hang themselves for want of nothing more than wealth. False brothers there I can see at the altar sharpening their teeth; forked tongues coiled behind their smiles - they poison truth, lie, and beguile.
In the Church of the Falling Son pray the tired and lonely ones, as they've prayed on every eve for some small hope of relief. Their knees are bloody, bruised and sore. They've been in this church before. They cried behind its broken door. Their tears have often wet the floor.
They limp there with crooked backs; drag their feet through well-worn tracks; beat down by suffering every day. Unequal work for little pay. Rich men smile from towers high, while others with their burdens sigh; they look down upon the working ones marching in the falling sun, or crawling in the fading light. Misery is rich men's delight, as they move their wretched pawns: to church by dusk, to work by dawn.
How proud the rich men's vicious smiles. How neat their suits, how new their styles. Poor workers struggle to move their sacks with rich men's whips all at their backs.
No silver spoons, if spoons at all. No ruby slippers for home to call. The wealthy few share with no one in the Church of the Falling Sun.

credits

from Only Dead Birds Sing Over the Graves of Fallen Kings, released September 13, 2013

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Albatwitch York, Pennsylvania

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