Born in a sorry cot, left on the stairs of the cold stone;
 Damned to be scorned, in darkness, damned to be alone;
 Taken by the Church, his soul will be slave of God;
 In the belfry's beauty is his figure something odd.

 We see the hunchback in Notre Dame
 Dancing on the tallest towers

 Arcades and spires, filling his heart,
 Deep like the choir, fine like the art
 Is the place my cell, is it?
 Is God's home my [bad word] 
 Oh, my body prisions my poor soul,
 Until I toll!

 I am grim, full of gloom
 In my dim gothic tomb
 But the bells in my heart chime for ever
 With the ding that belongs
 To the king of their songs
 I'm the sound of Notre Dame

 In the Wheel of Life he is a horror for the crowd,
 When will be the time he'll see the sun between the clouds?
 Looking at the bells he thinks about his tragic fate
 Wants to be a rock or metal like his souless mates

 We hear the hunchback in Notre Dame
 Crying on the tallest towers

 Gargoyles and columns, his relity;
 Chants wich are solemn, his agony
 Is this place my cell, is it?
 Is God's home my [bad word] 
 Oh, my body imprisons my poor soul
 Until i toll!

 I am grim, full of gloom
 In my dim gothic tomb
 But the bells in my heart chime for ever
 With the ding that belongs
 To the king of their songs
 I'm the sound of Notre Dame