There are no saints or teachers No reason here nor rhyme Just the black robed missionaries of death To toll The bells of time Down along the border Upon a lonely road I saw a man in flowing robes His hair was snowy white He said he was five hundred years And his hands were cold as ice From touching all the dead men Who'd played the highest price For living on his mountains And running in his grass He said he'd come to take his payment Before the hour was passed He was tired of seeing thieves upon What once was his alone And ashes in his valleys Where once the flowers had grown He said he'd seen the foreign kings Come marching through the mud To carve their image on the land And write their names in blood And leave a legacy of hate Upon this sleeping land That she might never rise again To bide the feeding hand He'd seen the halo'd churches rise He'd watched the heroes fall To lie beneath their banners While Judas stands so tall Where behind Caesar's scarlet sword A smiling Jesus stands No thorns upon his hooded brow No holes into his shoulder There's no mark of shame Upon the sellers of the truth So none may know their name