Into the Painted Grey Agalloch

The jagged lines in these wooden hands
Speak of a silent aeon below the depths
Of an austere ebon tide
For centuries kingdoms have risen
Upon the ancient hands of a god
Once severed for the world's birth
A sacrifice to the storms of life
Now darkness is thine sanctum

Temples of magma stream across the grey
The arc that transcends my iconic pride
For I am not an ageless god, no, I am imprisoned by time
These ancient palms shall once again be mine

Hands...hands that lift the oceans
To vertical depths above the stars
For when I die, the universe will die with me
And all will be lost forever gone

Where am I?
How long shall I suffer here?
Forlorn in the cold neolithic embrace
Forsaken deep in the sullen tide
How long shall I suffer here?

Perched on the cliffside gazing out into the brine
My archaic beard pours downward and joins the feral sea
I am the heritage; the quintessence of myth and legend
The archetype of Pagan might and divinity