Thorns of Vespertine - Moon-Borne Bride of Woe

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When love is slain and sanctity denied, vengeance wears a wedding veil...
Enter the moonlit crypt of Thorns of Vespertine, where baroque tragedy and gothic doom entwine in our latest requiem: “Moon-Borne Bride of Woe.” Perfect for fans of Theatre of Tragedy, Sins of Thy Beloved, and Tristania, this track is both a lament and a curse — a serenade for the scorned, the sundered, and the spectral.

Lyrics in description
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When pale moon kissed the garden's breathless gloom,
A lily stirred beneath unhallow'd tomb.
With silv’ry shroud and soil in braided hair,
She rose – a bride undone by foul despair.
Her lips were dusk, her eyes two coals of grief,
Her heart a chalice brimmed with vengeance brief.
Denied of church, of peace, of final bed –
Thus walks the bride whom love and blade made dead.

O thou grey wretch, whose coffers gleam with gold,
Thy blood hath bought me, yet my heart’s not sold.
Thou took’st my love and buried him in night –
So now I come, unbless’d, with dead-man’s bite.
Art thou afeard? Dost hear the churchbell moan?
I come with frost – thy soul shall die alone.

What spectre breaks the stillness of my hall?
What icy breath doth on my shoulder fall?
Thou shouldst lie deep, thy sins too grave to pardon –
Thy neck was rope-bound ‘neath the yew-tree garden!
Thou art not she – no maid, no bride of mine –
But devil’s whelp, with lips of soured wine!

Thou know’st me well, thou coward swaddled tight.
I was the rose, thou pluck’dst me in the night.
My love lay cold, struck down by coinèd blade –
So now, by God denied, thy flesh I flay’d.
I drank of death, yet in that wine I woke –
To rend the hand that round my neck had broke!

Speak not of love – thy lips are dark with curse!
Thy touch is cold, thy name a funeral verse!
Had Heaven's grace not turn’d away its gaze,
Thou'd be no ghost to haunt these bloodless days.
Spare me thy wrath, thy weeping widow’s guise –
For I have paid the priest to close thine eyes!

No priest shall bar me, nor thy household gate –
Thy name is writ within the book of fate.
I was thy lamb, thy lamb made cruel and sly –
The kiss I bring shall teach thee how to die.
Open thy mouth, and feel my wedding vow –
A ring of teeth upon thy wrinkled brow!

God's wounds! The fire! The cold! The creeping dark!
Thy breath is grave-mist, and thy skin is stark!
This is no justice, this is blasphemy –
Yet... I see now... what I made thee be.
Go, cursed bride – my sin, my night, my shame...
Thou art the child of both my lust and flame...

Then rest, thou beast, beneath the earth’s cold lung.
Thy coin buys naught, thy last false song is sung.
For love once slain shall rise again with spite –
And she who weeps may drink the dark of night.