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On the hill where blood runs cold,
Cry to God or lose your soul.
The wicked one sits
Lamenting his quest.
He has little time
His plan will unwind.
The valley of blood
that runs waist deep.
They drown in the sorrow
of eternal sleep.
Run to the temple and protect its walls.
Pick up the sword, the devils will fall.
Into the Sanctum, into the deep.
Unto the Ark, the demons will weep.
Armour and cross, Protect us from sleep. Knowledge in hand, turning the tides
Onward to victory, the lone templar rides.
John DeBona
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