Morning Star. Morning Star, Son of Dawn, so high in the sky. So close to the top, but never close enough. You want to be able to look God in the eye, Tell him he made you perfect in beauty and wit But he put you in the wrong place in the order, You should be highest of high, before the lord, He put you below himself, only on the border, You will make yourself god, perfection is tainted, You wish to be someone that commands millions, Bend them to your own will, follow your every whim, Your promises are meant to bend the civilians, You trap many in your honeyed words, your lies. You own a land, far under the surface of the earth, Or maybe inside our minds and our souls, a latent evil. A pocket of evil kept within us, from our very birth, And kept until our death, until we go to hell to meet you. You're perfect in beauty, the seal of perfection, You steal from the lord what you couldn't create yourself, You take what you deserve, in your mind, they're an infection, A pawn in a game of chess between two gods.