psalms alive

i am the nail that you can't strike, i am the spear that will run you through, and when the shots were falling we were sound asleep, and you filled your palms with dirty bombs, instead of hand grenades, i am teeth which cannot bite, i'll tear your garden up by the roots, and when the shots were falling we were sound asleep, and you filled your palms with dirty bombs, instead of hand grenades, hear the seven bells toll, ringing loud for you, coroners and vultures, cry out, gloria!, all across the valley, onward towards the sun, the two-bit prophet sways and, pull a piece from everyone, feel the heavy hoof-beats, pound across the land, the sin of our forefathers, lies within our clutching hands, what the planes pass over, hear it's call-to-arms, the golden drunk of morning, made me straight my bended knee