The day of the dead, the day of the dead,

Down on your knees and pray,

For the souls of the living, the souls of the dying,

The souls that have passed away.

And the great bell tolls

For the treasure of souls

Delivered into his hand,

Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, reap

Souls as a measure of sand,

Souls from the restless deep,

Souls from the blood-red land.

The day of the dead, the day of the dead,

Down on your knees and pray,

For the souls of the outcast, despised and rejected,

The heroes and victors to-day.

And the great bell rings,

And the great bell swings,

As death makes up the number

Of men's lives as grains of sand,

From the decks their bodies cumber,

From the panting shivering land,

From crash and shriek to slumber.

The day of the dead, the day of the dead,

Up on your feet and stand

For the souls of the living, the fighting, the striving,

For the gun and the sword in hand.

And His Transfiguration

Descends on a nation,

And death is a little thing,

And lives as a grain of sand.

Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, bring

From the desolate blood-red land,

From the tall ships foundering.

The day of the dead, the day of the dead,

Down on your knees and pray

For the souls of the living, the souls of the dying,

The souls that have passed away.