Be something that amounts to nothing the threat
A wrecking ball plowing through our karma
We have no confident voice in our ears for tonight
Exist in memory (the) only headline
(chorus)
We have been through change, by the season of the storms
Its irony, the cleansing
Except eccentric faith, to need religion
To sit high among the elect
On march the Saints
There's no such thing as a good time for bad luck
As minutes turn to distressed fragmented moments
Reading lips unable to hear the talk
Partake no tangible out in tomorrow
(chorus)
We have seen the change, from the season of the storms
Its irony, the cleansing
With all our lives at stake, from at rest to present
Are sitting high, among the elect
On march the Saints
