Sons of Perdition's third album, Trinity.

The Bones Of Ymir

Night Passage

Song Of Ruin

The Trickster

Profane The Night

The Summoning

I recorded this back in June of 2006 while I was recording our first album, The Kingdom is On Fire, and promptly forgot about it.

The Tomb of Daniel Parker
Way down south in Elkhart where the twisted pine trees brood, back in darker days a grave was made to hold a corpse in all its grue. The flesh was torn to ribbons, brains were hanging out his head and all that blood had stained the mud a sickly shade of charnel red. The men had tried to tell him "When you see the Devil, run!" Now he rots inside that hungry grave under that bloated sun. The tomb of Daniel Parker was a cancer in the earth. Its poison sank obscene and rank and started to its work. The trees there grew unwholesome and the weeds were thin and pale. A sickly fog enshrouded all that festered on that hill. Still the townsfolk whisper weirdly "When you see the Devil, run! Pray when Daniel Parker steals a soul that your hide ain't the one!" The Devil stuck his finger through at that unholy spot where the tomb of Daniel Parker belches sulfur, pitch and sparks. The town was raised on fallow ground that lay unconsecrated, while far below in clay so cold, old Parker cruelly waited. So harken all ye children, when you see the Devil, run, for the ghost of Daniel Parker slavers hungry for your blood.

The Tomb of Daniel Parker

See that girl weeping silent in her cold empty home? Watch her pretty flesh wither and drop from the bone. Now smell the tears of that boy as they paint his poor face. His heart stumbles and it falters with complete lack of grace. Hear the man cursing softly as he dies in his bed, in the clutches of the cancer that blooms in his head. And feel the soul of that lady get sucked through the gates, though her body treads onward down a path that she hates.

Now taste the blood on the teeth of the only one you love.

Well the preacher on Sunday like the farmer on Monday and the shepherd out some other day, know they ain't exempt. So don't waste time with your tears because it's worse than you fear, you gotta get right outta town before your own day gets here. Now sow those seeds in that ground that grows so fallow and cold. You know they'll never be found. I say they'll only grow mold, 'cause there ain't gonna be no big harvest this year. I tell you, time to settle debts, it is drawing so near.

Psalm of Withering

A secret space and moldy bones, a wall where one shouldn't be. There's a cricket hiding in my cellar, calling up to me. A tarp and a trowel and a broken lamp, the stench of eternity. There's a dozen crickets in my cellar, calling up to me. A shifting of bones and a rustle of cloth, the chatter of lime-crusted teeth. There's a hundred crickets in my cellar, calling up to me.

Pray to your Maker, absolve thee of sin. And pray to ancestors, to all your dead kin. Pray to your mother and pray to your father and pray to your uncle and sister and brother. Aim your prayers skyward to Heaven on high and cast those prayers into that cold lake of fire. And then you'll discover with your final breath, your prayers were all futile, unheeded by Death.

A scratching and scraping of fumbling claws from the shores of Erebus' sea. There's a thousand crickets in my cellar, calling up to me. The thud of decay-withered limbs on the floor, a ragged croak summoning me. I'm going down now to the cellar, say a prayer for me.

Psalm of Retribution

I took my rifle from down off its shelf and took to the woods to be by myself.

(I'm not myself but I'm nobody else)

That moon is a Eucharist, stale and unleaven. Those stars all are maggots in the cold flesh of Heaven.

And though they grow fatted on the blood of it all, they're destined to sicken and wither and fall.

So I took that rifle from down off its shelf and took to the woods to be by myself.

Psalm of Solitude

The ghostly voice was recorded in smoke back in 1860.

Psalm of Hell

O LORD, woe LORD, O LORD....

Make thick my blood that I won't feel the exaltation of Thy will. Blind my eyes that I can't see Thy vengeance coming down through me. Make still my heart that I might lie and see not those You chose to die. Smother these embers of a soul grown cold and blot my name out from Thy tome. Then bind my soul that it will stay and with this body soon decay.

LORD let me die, LORD let me rot, LORD give me not another thought.

Psalm of Woe

I swear it was the Wendigo that drove me to the axe, but I confess that no hand further made me chop and cut and hack. Deep inside my curdled mind a murky abyss yawned, and at my feet in endless sleep my family waited for the dawn. Children, mothers, beasts of burden, not one life was spared. Gazing on the piles and pyres, I rended clothes and tore my hair. Deep inside my troubled mind, that gaping hole was filled with blood and moans and fingerbones of all my party I had killed. On ground and clothes and hard-packed snow, just how much blood I cannot tell. What Neptune's oceans could not cleanse did grease my footing down to Hell.

The Party

My skin and my clothes colored red with the dust, so full of rage that my brain's about to bust. I've lived out my life without blemish of sin; I'm not out for murder, just bloody revenge. O sun up above, throw down pity on me! Lay light on my dark path that I, Lord, might see. Done said it a hundred times, say it again; I'm not out for murder, just grant me revenge.

When that which you thirst for is redder than blood, when angels with trumpets unleash Heaven's flood, ain't nothing you do will keep Satan at bay. He'll climb on your back and he'll lead you astray. He whispers the things that you're aching to hear as he pours bile and venom so deep in your ear. When your body's a prison and your mind is a cage, the Devil blows cruelly on the embers of rage. With no Sword of Righteousness, no Shield of Light, and the promise of vengeance that's darker than night. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and the blood on your hands bespeaks volumes of truth. The blood in your veins crying loudly for justice. That old Prince of Lies whispers warmly to trust us. Pray the good Lord will find him and root out his tongue 'fore down the Abyss your poor body is flung.

The glare of the sun helps me gather my thoughts. I choke on the smell of my soul as it rots. My thoughts turn to one thing and that thing is murder. I jump on my pale horse to find those who'd hurt her. O Lord up above, show Your mercy on me! I've lived a good life now devoted to Thee. Now turn a blind eye for I need absolution 'cause I'm riding to Hell seeking black retribution.

Anhelo

The sick of the fold turn their backs on the flock to wander the wasteland so grim. They pray to false idols of wood, gold and rock when they ought to raise voices to Him.

The blood in the valley is Thine Lord, not mine, so guide my hook and hand as I reap from the vine. The faithful up front and the sinners behind, O Lord, let Thy glory shine.

They poison the wells with their venomous lies. The crops in the fields turn to coal. Like a gangrenous limb on the body of Christ, their stain brings Hell on the whole. The moon of the harvest is steeped in red hue, and from the mouth of the valley, no sound. The dregs on the ground pay the Devil his due as he lights on that pale sunken mound.

Blood in the Valley

The ground was baked hard and the children were thin; the faces of townsfolk were all but caved in. So hot that they couldn't tell kith from their kin when the rainmaker, full of hope, came rolling in. And his mouth hollered promises, his eyes yelled relief, and the folks gave all that they could give, except for all their grief.

Drunken on snake oil and glutted on greed, that merciless shuckster harked his hollow wares. But high above the valley, no cloud would take seed, so in a torrent of red dust, he tried to flee there. But the townsfolk fell upon him; their eyes were like ice. And they split his guts from neck to flank in grim sacrifice. And as his body fell lifeless on that hardscrabble ground, all bleary-eyed and drunk on blood, the townsfolk staggered back to town.

Above that parched valley, the clouds in the sky like shuckster's blood clotted as it blackened and dried. And perched on that firmament of Heaven on high, the black eyes of angels were peeled open wide and the heavens were rended with a deafening sound, and the rain hammered deep on that drought-bitten ground, and a great wall of water through the valley did howl. It washed away the people and their sins and their town.

Death of a Shuckster

It was way down South where Sherman had Atlanta all burning that his only son was shot and stabbed and killed. And to avoid a lynching for having gone Injun, the surgeon took a post out on that bloody battlefield.

Well he's hacking and he's sawing and his chisels both are gnawing through the grit and through the grime and through the grue. And he's whistling and he's grinning and his eyes are both spinning and his skull is burning coldly like the moon.

Well nobody knew how the surgeon's madness grew like a fungus in the absence of the sun. How he pieced together limbs and how he bayed unholy hymns like his ancient Shaman masters once had done. When he saw the body jerk he knew his necromancy'd worked; now until the End of Days it roams the land. And when it begins to speak, of the grave it always reeks as it vomits up the secrets of the damned. Then several graves were pillaged and the women of the village met the knife and hook of lonely Saw Jones. Well the men all had enough and got a posse up to snuff him but all they found was Junior sucking marrow from his bones.

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