My Master, My Father

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Ambrosia is a bitter cup
That steals the soul, but fills the gut
It makes a man to run for years
And lose the life he once held dear


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

The sun, the sea, and dear old gravity
They seek my wings
They long to keep my flight in check
But they ain't seen nothin' yet

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Though I may burn, and then burn out
I'll fall to ash without a doubt
You'll find therein a molten mirth
It lies within the phoenix' birth


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace