Dies Irae
Get thee behind me, Emmanuel:
The gates of your perdition
Are edged with pearl and guilt.
Beneath the altar, relics of our innocence;
Spilt wine, consecrated,
Dripping from stigmatic hands.
Ex cathedra I exhume this execration;
Censor your thurible, no incense shrouds
The stench of rotting entrails
Worn around your neck.
I speak no evil, though of evil speak:
A flayed conclave, in virgin flesh enrobed;
Shamed light through sin-stained window steals,
May you choke on your denial.
Secrets of the sacristy
In shattered silence torn,
No hell severe enough,
No heaven to forgive,
Holy fire burn it all.