Transitory lives constructed around faint notions of humanity.
Prattling off false demands, we believe we have reached out and touched you.
Boldly we march; bravely we will fall.
Who is right? Who has the right to dictate salvation?
I will ask the questions to reach devinity.

Shepards blindly guide us through the land,
Projecting the befitting manner of the flock.
To the cliff we march, jumping without inticement.
Ever desperate to reach salvation, no one speaks up.
Reaching out for the aid, I fall short of the hand.

Comfortably we descend into perdition.
Believing the best, they no longer see doom.
The words of the shepard advise us along.
I cannot decipher the same meaning.
On the behest of our spiritual leader, they do not demur.
All the while we miss the way to delverance's admission.