The weapons master has no heart, his high desire and cold. He's sold within that hideous steel, a soul I have been told. His only care is for your skill, his only love is own. And where another has a heart, he has a marble stone. That's what the common wisdom holds, but common is not true. For there is often truth behind what's in the common view. And so it is the heralds' chast that didn't truth to win. To see behind the face without and find the face within. He goes to students in to rage, he drives them into pain. He mocks them and he does not care that tears may fall like rain. He works them when they're weary and rebukes them when they fail. Cuts them to ribbons with his tongue as they stand me and fail. But will our enemies be fair, or come on us behind? And will they stay their tongues, or in their words a weapon find? Or wait till we are rested before making their attacks? Or will they rather beat us down and then go for our bath? But he has no compassion, does not care for man or beast. And when a student's gone, he does not notice in the least. And no one calls this man their love and no one calls in friend. And none can judge him by his face or what he may intend. But I have seen him speak, the word that brings hope from despair. Or dropped the one where compliment that makes a student care. And I have seen his sorrow when he hears the death bell cry. His soldy bagony of doubt that nothing can deny. For on his shoulders rests the job of being us for war. With nothing to give him the clue of what to train us for. And if he fails it is not he that pays but you and I. And so he dies a little when he hears the death bell cry. And now you know the face within, hit by the face without. The payment he must harbor all the guilt and all the doubt. The weapons master has a heart so grand his stony mask. For you and I aren't strong enough to bear that kind of task. you