Verse 1:
The ebony clock feigned and scorned
Spins the web of our lives forlorn
The raven claws at the sins of our past
Midnight tolls behind obsidian glass

Chorus 1:
What lies behind the arms bekoning call?
An unquenchable pyre or nothing at all
What morbid truths linger inside waiting?
To taunt our future with the blackest of hates

Verse 2:
13 monks ascend the hill
Torches illuminate the night ever still
In search of reason they ponder our dead
Shrouded in doubt they join the dead

Chorus 2:
What lies behind the arms beckoning call?
Would you die to find it is nothing at all?
Does the tolling ring louder for you every dawn?
Will you rest in peace or in hellfire burn?