Imagine, if you can a world run by the faithful
A sad and sterile planet of oppression ruled
By thought police, who on the fear of millions feast
Their jackboots on the necks of the grateful zombies who believe
Radix Malorum Est Fidelitas
Oily smiles and warm welcoming hands spread wide,
Beware the priest beckoning you to come inside.
Saints and martyrs fetishised
By a death cult built on human sacrifice
In life their divine warrant feared
And from the grave their bones still revered
"He that loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me!"
Their Holy Son is a loving lord
In lieu of promised peace he'll bring a sword
To loving bosom, man enfolds
Yet his enemies will be of his own household
Torture even unto and past the grave in hell is his guarantee
And guilt his only legacy
Angels fall from grace, clipped of wings
By puppeteers' hands, and severed strings
From a throne of gold his predecessors oversee
To reap ill gotten spoils while bleating "charity"
Another cleric stands, the bearer of the Word,
Whose actions speak so loud the sermon can't be heard
May their silver tongues tarnish, for we recall
How they behaved when the boot was on the other foot.
Radix Malorum Est Fidelitas, Religio Venena Omnia
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