Jared

Lyrics

He didn’t mean to tear the veil— Just tugged a thread, a gentle doubt, a question whispered under breath. But fabric frays with time and thought, And now the altar’s burning down and he doesn’t know what he’s caught. He knelt ‘til his knees forgot how to walk, Mouthed their verses but forgot how to talk. He sang of grace with a voice gone hoarse, While guilt rode his back like a Trojan horse. They preached of heaven with teeth bared tight, But hell was the mirror they used at night. They told him faith was fortress stone, Unshaken, sacred, set in bone. But when he knocked—it echoed back, A hollow room, a subtle crack. And God—He didn’t thunder down, Didn’t rage, didn’t strike him blind. He just… was silent. And he lost his mind. He cracked. Quiet at first—like a whispered prayer But louder inside than the chapel’s air. They said “Doubt is the Devil,” So he slept with him. Said, “Tell me the truth, not the hymn.” He laughed, and whispered scriptures they never taught— About women unbowed and prophets who fought, About temples toppled by holy wrath, And Christ cursing fig trees along his path. He held communion like a loaded gun, Each wafer stung like blistered sun. What’s the body if the body lies? What’s the wine if heaven dies? And hell— Hell became the shadow cast by every thought he couldn’t pass. Was he blasphemous or just awake? How much can the soul unmake before it tears beyond repair? So he tore out the pages they told him to love, The ones where the silence fit like a glove. The ones that said “submit or die,” The ones that taught him how to lie— To himself, to others, to every ache That begged him to break for his own damn sake. He wept like the flood that never came, Then built a boat and cursed His name. What kind of god demands your scars, Then sells you shame wrapped up in stars? What kind of heaven needs hell to exist, Needs your wounds, then calls them a gift? So he lit his Bible like a final sin, Watched the ink run like guilt from skin. The flames sang psalms he’d never heard— Not in Latin, not in preacher’s word, But in a tongue he knew from dreams and screams, From midnight grief and unraveling seams. No more lamb. No more blood. No more king. He is not your pawn. He is not your string. He is man—not molded from clay, But from fury that won’t kneel or pray. He found God in a whisper beneath his rage, Not behind pulpits or printed page. Not in dogma or damning decree— But in the part of him they feared would break free. He longs for the comfort, And the song. Even if the song was wrong. Misses the safety in the cage, the certainty they call “the stage.” The script, the part, the final bow— He knows not who he is now. Not saint. Not sinner. Not saved. Not damned. Just… still falling. Without a hand. And that— that’s the part they never preach. How terrifying it is to reach beyond the book, beyond the sky, and hear no answer, just your cry. And yet— beneath the terror, raw and real— a voice still speaks not loud, but