Gunfire pierces through the night

and screams arise throughout the fight.

A child hides under the bed

dying voices in his head

whistling bombs light the sky

and he wonders if he'll die.

Forgive us, Lord, for what we've done

In your name and your fair sons'-

Call it war, call it jihad

It's all in the name of God.

When we die it's hard to tell

which heaven, which hell.

It's all the same, some mother's son,

some bearded child - life just begun

bleeding out on the ground.

The earth is thirsty everywhere it seems

in the desert, swamp, and all extremes.

Forgive us, Lord, for what we've done

In your name and your fair sons'-

Call it war, call it jihad

It's all in the name of God.

Death - the new pornography

of all the senseless wars

to the cameraman corpses are but whores

whose price is never paid

but in the heartbroke mourning

we all pay as joy falls in the grave.

Forgive us, Lord, for what we've done

In your name and your fair sons'-

Call it war, call it jihad

It's all in the name of God.

Full color, tears in any language

look the same to any mother.

To her, God is the voice of a child

still living at the break of day

under a bed, streaks on a dirty face.

I just can't pray, can't pray.

Forgive us, Lord, for what we've done

In your name and your fair sons'-

Call it war, call it jihad

It's all in the name of God.