You have your blood, my lord.

Windows

Look forth , my lord and plot my glory to see
so that my eyes , a window to this sullen symphony
can see its high peaks , jarring notes
Strings of treble-classed hymms
and hear your children upon this pasture
trapped in your little orchestra


Unto the fields , where your flag is victorious!
Blasphemy! Infamy! They shout
The plunder is rich. The rebels are cast out
Your eyes are sad, Father.
Shall I reach for my sword?
Can i call the herald?
Or is it the work of the devil?
Is this not your will?


Could it be the burnings?
Would it be the rape? or the prisoners staved?
All in your name? I would smite them!
Hold your hand you said , but i don't understand father.
What is this gold in rebel's stock you speak of?
This is but man's way , just another voice in their heads , you said.

But a voice all the same!
The same way you too! and I am one!
What should I do father?
Where is my father's praise?
When would man take leave from his own fate?

The halls are silent tonight.

Oh father, why do you sing sadly?