We stand appalled, As we mourn our God's fall from high power, To sombre frailty. As ad men and merchandisers twist hate from mass graves, We reciprocate, And join mankind's greatest manhunt since the Nuremberg parade. So more destined blows land on distant lands, With justice in mind, And another gun in our hands, As Fate's quiet hand re-shapes the land. While every stone thrown from the sky, Blinds another patriotic eye, We wonder why. And bless ourselves, And Pray that Hells halls will burn brighter for our war dead, Or that Fate's hand will heed man's watershed. So out here I stand, Numbly watching the hour-glass sand, As Fate's quiet hand guides a man. Now as these clocks beat slower into finite hours, I realise, at war-time, Amongst return fire, And crumbling towers, No peace can flower.