Hymn III: Of Wolf and Hatred

O Vandringsmand i een forbandet Nat
Troe ey at hans Had dig vild skaane
Hans Rov vild ey vaere nogen anden
End dig
Der vild skiælve i hans vær
I uselt Haab om at Huus er nær.

End dig
Hvis Blod skald blifve hans stærke Viin
Oc Siæl, hans hellige Trofé.

Faafængt han lader dig gyde
Ut dit Blod i Smertens Sin.

Saa du som død ey Sofnloest kand
Fortælde Frænder: "Ulven er ham!"

Som Offer for Beistets Krav
Dit Blod vild rende koldt som Bæcl i Grav.

Gud er ey her, men Døden nær
Oc hvert Secund som her
Er undt dig -
Skimrer i et dobbelt Skiær
Aff baade Liiv & Død.

Rasende lader han Bliket binde
Løfter dit i Maaneskinnet.

O Wanderer in this infernal Night
Believe not his Hate will spare thee
His prey shall be no one
But thee
Who shall tremble when he is near
In foolish hope for shelter.

And thou
Whose bloode strong wine shall be
Thy Soule, his sacred Trophie.

In vein he lets thee shed
Thy bloode in this Sea of Payne.

Then shalt thou not haunt thine friends
Revealing: "The Wolf is he!"

Coldlie thy bloode shall flow
As streams through Graves below.

God is not here, but death draws near
And secondes are O, so few
In a Nature twofold they shine
Beginning and End combine.

Fool, thou art prostrate
By the raging eyne of his
Lifted upwards
Rapt in Moonshine.