Revolution's the word, they say it under their breaths
All the workers together, they gather in the old church
That was built out of timber and sweat, of anguish and blood
Of the children they lost to sickness, buried in rushed
And unmarked graves

All the opulent gold and silver of the old church
Has been taken away by kings and nobles who know
That the poor do not need such beauty or such delights
For a man to survive on bread alone, without joy
Is good and right

All the people that gather in the church on this day
Make performances mocking rulers, singing of change
That they know is to come, a revolutionist's mass
In a place that was once a leash, a tool of control
And fear of Hell

A new covenant's made between these people and God
That the law be enforced by love, and not by a stick
In a world with no work, just play, that's joyful, and kind
To the sick and the weak, and free of those who would take
Instead of give.