Through pangs we work the land
With pain of bloodied, blistered hands
A weathered plane where life has ceased
Demanded praise from papal beasts

Ground is turned to no avail
That once bountiful proven frail
The well of eternal splendors has dried to holy endeavors
Warding off the bitter cold, cloaked in disease ridden hides
Withered spirits worked down to bone by deliverance through sacrifice

Sown in barren soil
Scant harvest is the omen of sorrow
Sown in barren soil
The noose of famine hangs for all to see

Long has been foretold the exhausting plight of man
Though withered torn and cold, through hardship we shall stand
No solace is sought in allegiance to those who suffer not
The hunger takes our strength, but our wills can not be fought

Shepherd peoples with your scepter
The flock of your possession
That dwells itself in the woodland
In the midst of a fruitful field
Let them feed in the promised land as in the days of old
Until then we reap abysmal yields
Sown in barren soil