A whispered prayer, said alone,
That failing, he might yet atone,
For whilst asleep and cold as stone,
So little Evil soil was sown.

Whilst his duties oft neglecting,
Weakness through his House infecting,
Witless churl so deftly wrecking,
What he lived so long protecting,

And lo, when battle horns did sound,
And bloodied comrades gathered round,
And Eastern soldiers did abound,
And so defiled hallowed ground.

Where did he go? Where had he gone?
Had asked that anxious, sanguine throng,
Why had the leader so withdrawn,
As timid as the moons at dawn.

Brothers armed against the Heathen,
Eager for their warlike season,
Whatever excuse or reason,
Absence is a quiet treason.

Now waking, shaking off the chill,
And swallowing sleep's bitter pill,
He wakes to take up tools until,
Restored, his House reflects Their will.

So let the Seven Truths be spread,
So let the Heathen blood be shed,
So let the prideful bow his head,
And follow paths the Lords hath tread.



Penned by my hand on the 9th of Aeguary, in the year 523 AF.