Death Comes to the Sleeping

Death comes to the sleeping

They build a fortress to rule us all

An iron hand to cut us down

Rage and rumble with crushing force

We are all free under the gun

It might be moral power

And they might be the chosen ones

Bullets speak louder and dictate the way

Their will to rule leads us astray

Death comes to the sleeping while kept encaged

We're all just blood soiled slaves

It might be moral power

And they might be the chosen ones

And all our dreams are despondent

Raise your hand they'll cut it off

Rise

Moral Power