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