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...And The Earth Shall Be Holy

This song is by Ragnarok and appears on the album To Mend The Oaken Heart (1996).

Tears for the sunrise, witness of the dawn,
Awakens the sleeper from his rest, still and warm.
Alone he greets the morning, blinks the light from his eyes,
Turns his face from the vision, to the gods he cries,
"Why have you forsaken me enslaved to the unknown?
These years of savage plague have left me scarred like ancient stone".

Nerthus, Nerthus I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve.
The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these.
Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise.
Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more.
The scythe is raised, it can only fall.

Witness of the morning wipe thy moisty eyes.
Tis time no more for grieving, time for gods to rise.
The corn grows pale and yellow, scythe is honed and sharp,
Hunting-moon will waxen as the days grow dark.
Now the quick must fall as leaves drop silently from trees,
And, cold and still, push up their mounds into the Autumn breeze.

Mankind, mankind I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve.
The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these.
Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise.
Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more.
The scythe is raised, it can only fall.

With plaited limbs of golden stalks, the ben holds the spirit of the corn.
Awaits the Spring, her naked body stripped of emerald, buried, shall be reborn.

With golden spears and plumed heads, the master race believed invincible,
But gold must bend before the scythe or else to break, to fall so cold and still.

And the Earth shall be holy once more.

Waiting the season in endless time, I've seen the sunrise and She was mine.
No more confusion, darkness brings light; gods are awakened, now they will fight.
Mankind warned so many times by vision, word and deed.
As corn you grew so tall and strong, but now you've gone to seed.

Abred, Abred I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve.
The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these.
Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise.
Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more.
The scythe is raised, it can only fall.