Say, what kind of God is it
That takes you away so early
That leaves me behind, stunned
Broken and orphaned?
A God, that wipes out and destroys
What he made himself
Who pushes me, the lonesome mourner
Back into the night
Your grave is a wound
That the earth cannot close
I clench my hand into a fist
Which shoots into the sky
I break all the roses, rip the mourning ribbon apart
But your angels sing loudly in the choir
A bed made of stone
There where one is silent
Where no one speaks
Where grasses green, silent and fine
Where roses bloom is where you should be
All are silent, everyone cries
I'd like to scream
The afterlife that you were promised
Will be a lie
Because every one of the Pastor's words
Sets a stitch in me
To honor this God
I lie down next to you
Your grave is a wound
That the earth cannot close
I clench my hand into a fist
Which shoots into the air
I break all the roses, rip the mourning ribbon apart
But your angels sing loudly in the Choir
A bed made of stone
There where one is silent
Where no one speaks
Where grasses green, silent and fine
Where roses bloom is where I want to be