*If reading on a phone, open in browser and rotate screen to landscape. Welcome to the Black Parade (Good Friday Remix) When he was a young boy in Nazareth His father took him into Jerusalem for The Feast He said: Son, when you grow up, will you save The broken, the beaten, the damned? Will you heal The Patient slipping into stillness? Will you think of your unfortunate father? I will grow old, son, and they will not write about me The inspired authors will leave me out of their narrative And you will become their hero. One day, I’ll leave you— A spectral memory to guide you up Kranion They will break you, beat you, damn you And you will exhale your final breath With splinters in your back And thorns in your head Your mother will watch As bodies fill the streets And your disciples turn away In shame and fear, they will carry on As carrion-feeders circle overhead Hoping to feast on your decaying sóma Those who came together for theória Will return home beating their breasts Your spirit, rent from its corporeal container Will join the Black Parade, as mine did When we are both dead and gone, believe me: Our memories will persist in their hearts and minds. In a world lurching between misery and hate They will paint it black and shout loudly In defiance: Why God? Where were you? Given the choice to do and die You will be both life for the lost And father to the fatherless children In the streets of the city marching Behind their single mothers Who pray in your name As the prescient piano and diminished drum Sound an unexplainable anthem of things to come. He said: My name is Joseph of Arimathea I am a member of the council They call me good and righteous But I am just a man (not a hero) Give me his corpse, Pilate For I did not consent To the decision and action of my peers And I have a tomb cut in stone Where no one has ever yet been laid We will wrap him in a linen shroud And prepare spices and ointments To preserve our decimated dreams. Then, we will head the call to carry on Though he was broken and defeated And weary widows weep in desperation I will not explain or beg forgiveness For I am one who bears a scar My name is Metōnymia Like crown for king, Grave for death, and as in: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones. No evil did you, son Nor will evil live after you Only goodness and mercy Will follow us as we carry on Through the rise and fall For we are not ashamed Of the good news Of the coming of the Messiah We, too, sing the Black Parade And give a cheer for all the broken We don’t care; we’ll carry on We want it all; we want to play the part Do or die, in sickness and in doubt We will forsake all others And keep thee unto us for as long as we live.