Žodžiai dainai: Woe Of Tyrants. Break The Fangs Of The Wicked.

The darkness will not subside.
Hands are reaching at the
footsteps stumbling in the night.
The stars can light the way,
countless eyes ablaze. A lamp
shining truth. In a corner
roaches claim the kingdom, they
scatter in the light. With cloak
of dark words, they wage this
fight. Across the room is
justice, the love for which we
stand. It will break the fangs of
wicked men, and crush in it's
hand. One truth remains in mind:
This place is not our home, with
every shout we waste, with every
new disgrace, this land will rot
and turn to sand. But are we of
mind to receive a salutation? The
knock on the door, the cell decays
away, into a swirl of scarlet
disarray, a moment to catch our
breath and begin to fly away far,
fly free.. Amazed eyes approved
this. Embarassed, nobles turned
away. Victims, young men
screaming, for it's for this in
which we've prayed: For those who
can't fight, for those who won't
fight, find strength within,
through the love of One. Bonded
in chains, which spark as they're
broken, sanctified will march. The
night is quiet. Dew laden branches
extend lies of a verdict brewing
within. Hearts go out to the
tortured ones, seeking out the
sun. Hold on through the darkened
times. Reviving as heroes do
rise, overtop the kings, screaming
alive, set fire to the night.
Beyond this great escape, where
the darkness cannot go. They've
preyed on those who can't fight.
On those who won't fight. We've
prayed for light on this