In the sign of a sacrament,
on the banner of thoughts,
on the seven of things in the
Bible, we are born.
Break a heart of reverence,
on the seven atonement,
on the final of things that our God came to
forewarn.
Perhaps,
fearless,
force us to run,
we are tenalists of menace,
like King Dedcom.
One, one, one, one with the pious head gone.
We are the heretic hunters tonight.
We are the heretic hunters of our life.
We are sons of the wilderness,
by the sound of our horn,
running fast in the night and we hunt up to the dawn.
We are done with the heavens' end,
no Messiah we mourn,
in the seven at night, full of hatred and scorn.
Fever us,
force us to show,
we are tenebrous,
poisonous,
pale, burnt and loud.
Uncrowned, hold up the sacrilest crown.
We are the heretic hunters tonight.
We are the heretic hunters of our life.