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Wold
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So That No Sword May Strike Him Down
The bright child conatins the lesser light,
Screech owl did send the fires forth,
We sprinkle him with dew from the sacred ground,
So that no sword may strike him down.
The bright child is a night child,
His glory is the night sky,
As his heart beats so does the moon shimmer,
His eyes shine as the morning star does glimmer.
The bright child walks the realm of obscurity,
Revels in enchantment of the lesser light,
Quietly carves away at the rough ashlar,
To form and define the middle pillar.
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