As it were, the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying,

come and see, and I saw, and behold, a white horse.

There's a man going round, taking names,

and he decides who to free, and who to blame.

Everybody won't be treated all the same.

There'll be a golden letter reaching down,

when the man comes around.

The hairs on your arm will stand up,

at the terror in each sip, and in each sip.

For you partake of that last offer cup,

or disappear into the potter's ground.

When the man comes around.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers.

One hundred million angels singing.

Multitudes are marching to the big cuddle ground.

Voice is calling, voice is crying.

Some are born and some are dying.

It's alpha and omega's king and come.

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree.

The virgins are all trimming their wigs.

The whirlwind is in the thorn tree.

It's hard for thee to kick against the priests.

...