Dies Irae
Get thee behind me, Emmanuel: The gates of your perdition Are edged with pearl and guilt. Beneath the altar, relics of our innocence; Spilt wine, consecrated, Dripping from stigmatic hands. Ex cathedra I exhume this execration; Censor your thurible, no incense shrouds The stench of rotting entrails Worn around your neck.
I speak no evil, though of evil speak: A flayed conclave, in virgin flesh enrobed; Shamed light through sin-stained window steals, May you choke on your denial. Secrets of the sacristy In shattered silence torn, No hell severe enough, No heaven to forgive, Holy fire burn it all.