Opening Crorus.

"The Fall."

Air: "There's a Land."

Down the grey murky byways, the paths of the lost,
The halt and the pale-eyed, the blight and the frost
Sweep withered and hope-lorn, the prey of the tomb,
Down the chasm of night to the menace of doom.
Shrouded, clouded,
Cowering, lowering;
Legions soul-cankered, engulfed at the fall:
Scattered, shattered,
Groping, hoping:
Go ye among them and rift ye the pall.

Down the ebb of life's tide, in the ice-chill of hate,
To the dread, sullen threat of implacable fate
Flee the lost horde of Moloch, adrift to the last,
Pursued by the wrath of a desolate past.
Mournful, scornful,
Cowering, lowering,
Swept in the deeps of the gloomiest shroud;
Battered, shattered,
Groping, hoping:
Go ye among them and rift ye the cloud.