These eyes haven’t seen enough. These ears haven’t heard enough. These hands haven’t built enough. These feet haven’t gone far enough.
Brothers and sisters can we start again?

When the trumpets sound;
we’ll gather our instruments and sing songs of inspiration. But when the music fades and it’s all been stripped away;
secretive harts will question their foundation. The white-washed denial became the battlements of our stained-glass houses. And the catapults have been made ready...

The snares we’ve set captured our innocence and the gallows await. When the judgements are falling;
are we able to bear the weight? This temple lays in ruin, and resurrection seems lost on you.
Living in captivity... can we escape our watery tomb? With seven layers of plague killing this hart, brothers and sisters searchlights are pressing for the cure.
The coldness of night reminds us that forgiveness seems so far gone. The stars outline our weakness, but after midnight it is perfection. When does replacement become satisfaction?