The prettiest moments I ever did see
Were stained with the blood of a saint
Who dedicated his life to tracing
The scars of the world with his paint
From the gate of the forest to the grave on the hill
He stood up his easel and drew
But I spat in his inkwell and scattered it round
And where it fell a crucifix grew
So while they nailed him up in the cold morning light
I pretended that I had gone blind
And I set up his easel and lifted his brush
And captured that moment in time
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