Hryredēaþ

Death arose from ravaged depths —

eldritch, ghastly ghoul from th’Underrealm —

arms draped in dregs of old

tattered robes of rev’nant trappings.

His heart-portals black bent and horrid

windows to th’Abyss, his broken and withered throne.

His fleshless hands holding forth

ever the silver-studded, silent emblems:

Reaper’s hour-counter filled with Ether’s riches,

entangling Time’s tether with torment.

In bloodless grasp his grim bladed

soul-stealer — sable scythe

year-ender, biting its baleful yield

of guiltless flesh — fane of Holy God.

Under, he dragged Him, to damn Him evermore.

Rich his folly — fool-mind reach stretching;

Sudden his doom — in Depths the horn sounded

to th’ancient gates: grant Glory-King entry!

In procession He raised righteous and pious saints,

never again to suffer sullen bonds of Nether-realm’s

Grim spectre, bent, bowing low before God of all!