One guitar on its own, laying out a slow, dark figure — patient, bell-like, marking time.

The voice comes in over it, steady and unhurried — a man in a cold cell, and a bell beginning to chime.

Five o'clock, they take him to the gallows pole. The voice stays level, and that levelness is the worst of it.

'The sands of time for me are running low.' And the music's been counting along the whole time — still in its first shape, but the surface underneath never quite settles.

There's the lift. The guitars press forward in bright, hard lines, the rhythm drops into a driving gallop — and the clock turns into a march.

'Running low' — he lets the words hang, and the band underneath just keeps moving. No pause, no breath.

The voice is back, and the lines come fast now, barely a gap between them — the priest, the last rites, a last look through the bars. It sounds like procedure.

'Somebody, please tell me that I'm dreaming.' That plain human wish — and the band doesn't stop for it. The line just gets carried into the next bar, like everything else.

'After all, I'm not afraid of dying' — but he says it inside music that's still urgent, so it comes out half courage, half self-persuasion.

The voice steps out and the band takes the front — the gallop locked in, the tempo relentless, pushing on without a break.

Still rolling, more than half a minute now, and it hasn't blinked once.

And the voice comes back after all that — now there's a scene: guards marching him out, a call from another cell, 'God be with you,' and no answer that satisfies.

'Catch my soul, it's willing to fly away.' The questions are hardening into testimony now — mark my words, my soul lives on.

'Life down here is just a strange illusion.' He's gone cosmic — and the music under him hasn't softened a step. Same drive, same push.

With the words spent, the band takes the whole argument — guitar lines running bright and cutting, the rhythm section holding the road under them. This isn't release, it's acceleration: everything he couldn't say, turned into motion.

It gathered weight a moment ago, and now it's sharpened again — the music keeps changing posture here: chase, brace, lift, return. It sounds heroic, but it never turns into escape.

Five and a half minutes in and it's still running. That's the thing about this song — the fear never gets erased, it gets disciplined into speed, over and over, until the running itself starts to look like dignity.

And the voice returns carrying the title — 'hallowed be thy name.' After the fear, the doubt, and all that flight, it lands like the only phrase big enough to hold any of it.

He takes it around again, and this time the phrase stretches out long over the band — less a chorus now than a final address.

One last 'yeah,' riding out the final bars — almost casual, after everything.

It stopped. Just like that. Seven minutes of carried time, and then silence — mid-count.