The Mortifier

The bell is tolling from a steeple made of rusted iron and bone,

The seeds of all your vanity are finally fully grown.

I walk the line of shadow where the living fear to tread,

To settle every account and gather up the unsaid.

The sky is turning leaden and the wind is breathing cold,

As the pages of the ledger start to ruthlessly unfold.

No prayer can stop the sickle, no coin can buy the time,

When you’re standing at the summit of your final, mountain climb.

​Mortifier, harvester of souls,

Watching as the fire swallows up the empty goals.

Judgement of the damned in a courtroom made of dust,

Turning every silver crown into a pile of rust.

I am the silent witness, I am the heavy hand,

Clearing out the wreckage from a broken, hollow land.

Yeah, I am the Mortifier.

​You hid behind the curtains and you whispered in the dark,

But I can see the blackness in the center of the spark.

Every lie is weighted, every cruelty is a stone,

That you’ll carry through the valley as you travel all alone.

There is no sanctuary, there is no place to hide,

From the crushing realization of the ego and the pride.

The harvest is beginning and the grain is turning black,

There is no mercy waiting and there is no turning back.

​Mortifier, harvester of souls,

Watching as the fire swallows up the empty goals.

Judgement of the damned in a courtroom made of dust,

Turning every silver crown into a pile of rust.

I am the silent witness, I am the heavy hand,

Clearing out the wreckage from a broken, hollow land.

Yeah, I am the Mortifier.

​Step into the circle, let the weight begin to fall,

Answering the rhythm of the ultimate and final call.

It’s a terrifying justice, it’s a cold and holy blade,

Fixing every error that the mortal spirit made.

The grain is in the silo, the chaff is in the fire,

Rising from the ashes of the funeral and the pyre.

​Mortifier.

The harvest is due.

I’m coming for the spirits and I’m coming for the true.

Judgement of the damned.

The scales are held high.

Underneath the pressure of a dark and heavy sky.

Souls in the hand.

Dust in the wind.

Where the cycle of the living is finally disciplined.

The Mortifier.