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Fate, it is said, holds us in its grasp with every action planned to our last. And then it is said that all men are free but the lock is forgotten if there is no key. Shackled to constants resistant to change fighting the current would only estrange. Bound by a Father and held by His Son the Spirit that's swallowed is held like a gun. Baptized in fear and married to hate conscripted by God to carry out fate. We march without rhythm and without rhyme Blessed is he who follows Him blind.