Marching Bones

March
March
March

Swift hooves of rigor mortis
Funeral sky over funeral steed
The graves are open

Bottomless quiver of plagues
The bow is drawn, and the arrow is nocked
The graves are open
The bow is bent, and the arrow is shot

We sing thy glory
Thou wild tide of death
We kneel before thee
Oh, pale deluge of marching bones
Marching bones

The big hand is on dying
The little on death
The seal is broken
By an avalanche of marching bones
Marching bones

Skull wagon, wall of coffins
Fields lush with gallows and Catherine wheels
The graves are open
And keen to show us the meaning of greed

Enchanted forest
Of Falun, red spears
We kneel before thee
Oh, rattling wave of marching bones
Marching bones