Rituals of the Oak
drown the wood in blood
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In the ritual fires flames lash at my feet
And the rope sears marks of shame and defeat
The good Lord weeps upon my remains
I am not a witch - God knows my name
These severed hands of the Holy Ghost
And the Holy Spirit are cold to my touch
All their faces surround me, in these dying breaths
They are nothing but fools - the bringers of death