[Intro]
[A cracked church bell answers the three-note guitar motif.]

[Verse 1]
Snow crossed the chapel through a splintered frame,
The saints had lost their eyes, the walls their name.
I barred the door with benches split by frost,
And counted all the pages I had lost.
My fingers found a carving in the seat—
Three jagged marks, a crown beneath their feet.
The timber groaned; a hidden iron jar
Released the smell of oil, old blood and tar.

[Pre-Chorus]
Beneath the dust, beneath the altar stair,
A leather grip lay wrapped in widow’s hair.
No jewelled guard, no blade of polished art—
Just rust enough to match a coward’s heart.

[Chorus]
Rust beneath the altar, red upon my hand,
A sword without a master from a faithless land.
I never learned the battle hymn or how the brave should stand,
But rust beneath the altar put the truth within my hand.
No knight had come to claim it, no saint had made a sign—
I took up history’s broken blade and made it mine.

[Verse 2]
A name was stamped where corrosion had not spread:
“The Keepers of the Horn,” the letters read.
The order had been stricken from the rolls,
Its graves reused, its banners burned for coals.
A prayer was carved along the blunt old spine:
“Let memory be armour, truth the line.”
Outside, the censors hammered at the door;
The bell above me shook but rang no more.

[Chorus]
Rust beneath the altar, red upon my hand,
A sword without a master from a faithless land.
I never learned the battle hymn or how the brave should stand,
But rust beneath the altar put the truth within my hand.
No knight had come to claim it, no saint had made a sign—
I took up history’s broken blade and made it mine.

[Break]
They shouted, “Clerk, surrender what you stole.”
I heard my own fear answer from my soul.
Then through the roof, the northern colours rolled,
And made the rusted edge shine green and gold.

[Instrumental Break]
[Tom drums and muted guitar strike a spare marching rhythm before the twin leads enter.]

[Bridge]
A sword can make no promise of a win,
A holy room cannot absolve its sin.
No blade can make a frightened spirit brave—
I cut the rope; bronze crashed between their blades.

[Final Chorus]
Rust beneath the altar, red upon my hand,
A sword without a master from a faithless land.
I still knew nothing of the wars or how the brave command,
But rust beneath the altar drew a road across the land.
No knight returned to claim it, no saint revised the sign—
I took up history’s broken blade and made it mine.

[Outro]
I left through graves where nameless Keepers lay,
The bell behind me barred the hunters’ way.