Your toils must not soil your faith
Be reminded that the old man is late
I loved you before you were born this is fate
In my robes of death I carved you a clothe of love
In the ornaments of thorns I decorated your life without odds
Your praise and devotion is my food
The world will taunt you with darkness
People will question you for effective service before me
Life will try to give you a fake identity
Let your thought be clean and transparent
Let the music in your songs be me
In death I am closer to you