Come Wælcyrige, take me from this place.
I long to feel your embrace.
And this body shall be my prison no longer.

Rain down upon me and wash away this life,
Which neither words nor deeds can redeem.

Take me to the gates of the shining citadel,
So that I may feast alone in silent halls
Beside the flowing mountain-stream.

Let me take upon myself this curse,
Let my bloodline die with me.
Let the great wind sing a lament to this land where nobility is no more.

Each of us must face the question, are we man or are we beast?
But no pagan son e'er found his answer, staring blindly to the East.

So I raise my fists, to an ashen sky, and call to gods that do not hear,
My hollow words, impotent and vain, are scattered on the howling winds.

But let this never be forgotten, this earth has tasted the blood of my clan.
Not of flesh, Not of dirt, but of Spirit we are one.

My answer beats with the heart of the mountain, and crashes with the thunder in the sky,
And the wind that whispers in my ear, will stay with me 'til the day I die.

O' mighty Northland,
Mother of us all,
Your earthen womb has nourished our crops.

O' mighty Northland,
Father of us all,
You gifted us the secret of steel.

O' mighty Northland,
Benevolent guardian,
Eternally you have sustained us.

O' mighty Northland,
Forged in the flames of antiquity,
Do your mountains still thirst for blood?

In an age where pride has withered
There stands our monument of faith.
Preserved by time, not by touch,
We remember the times of our golden age.

Figures carved in Neolithic stone
Homage to the ones who died in fight.
Burial mound of the fallen.
Stone of the white horse,
Birth of our true land.

Those that crush the roots of blood
Seek to remove our old ways.
Those that crush the roots of blood
Shall burn in flame as elder days.

And in this new age of darkness
Our entire heritage has been defiled,
To create a path for false gods and prophets
Destroying our identity!

The times are ahead when man finds lost wisdom,
And those without diligence shall pay with their blood!

The leaves of Éormensyll fall, returning to the russet ancient earth.
The wells and rivers overflow with blood of would-be wise that hang from ashen bone.

Its hollow limbs writhe towards the sky's auroral glow.
Death becomes the twilight. The four winds no longer blow.

He who gnaws can taste the flames, of corruption and denial.
Of terror forced blind submission. Of disease that seeps into the roots.

Faith has been bestowed to wealth and the weak are lead by traitors, who glorify emptiness.
The poison slowly creeps around the branches and all becomes consumed, rotting under the black moss.

Children of the crescent moon, your desert god is silent here.
His poisoned thoughts the teeth of Skoll that would extinguish the light of Sigel.

But this great land of forest and mountain pulses with a spirit of its own,
And 'pon these rocks which aeons stood, are carved the names of forgotten gods.

We cut the tongues from the mouths of false prophets and set to flame their houses of deceit.
Ing grant that the future remembers through bloodlines, and stories; the past of our tribe.

Tiw!
Thunor!
Woden!

These names are legend, yet we remember not.
But there are some that shall not forget.

[Instrumental]

From the vast encircling black seas do our ancestors watch with despairing eyes.
Only few still share this grief within their hearts like an extinguished flame in the eventide.

Many have now forgotten the deeds of our ancestors.
They have become blind to the charm of an alien faith.

The tide stirred, bound to the governing wind, building a falsity upon the foundations of our stronghold,
Forcing our essence into a construct of delusion and debauching our blood and glory!

Many have now forgotten the deeds of our ancestors.
They have become blind against a faith they once glorified.

Obstinate engravings etched onto the fabric of history.
Depicting our Gods as the accursed of their feeble doctrine.

Those who are now forgotten never perished from existence.
Once our awareness is reclaimed they will arise from our (dormant) consciousness.

Tir! Tir! Tir!

The new dawn shall come!