A man rode up on his horse,
And he said, “Son, grab yourself a gun”.
I said, “Sir I don’t have one and how is this right? Who am I to take who’s life in this fight?”
He tossed from his saddle a worn 45 saying, “You’ll know them by their fruit, who lies, who speaks the truth. Come I’ll show you who we shoot.”
7 years we rode hard, with each season growing upon my flesh new scars.
Churning dust, wielding justice in our palms, reciting psalms, before the darkest storm, we became the calm.
With justice failed, no longer blind or holding scales, we rode towards hell, across this desert on stallions we set sail.
To find the evil burning in the land, and snuff out life’s candle with a steady righteous hand.
