The Soul Of Man Must Quicken To

O Father, Father Gone From Us, Lost To Us, The Church Lies Bereft, Alone, Desecrated, Desolated. And The Heathen Shall Build On The Ruins Their World Without God. I See It. I See It.

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.

There Will Be Time To Murder And Create.

Love Compels Cruelty To Those Who Do Not Understand Love.

We Have All Our Private Terrors, Our Particular Shadows, Our Secret Fears. We Are Afraid In A Fear Which We Cannot Face, Which None Understands, And Our Hearts Are Torn From Us, Our Brains Unskinned Like The Layers Of An Onion, Ourselves The Last.