Would those hands on distant shores,
Touch ever softly on the soul blue,
Was his the magic foretold in lore,
On wizened, ancient sands his strength grew.

And would the sentience sublime,
Gestate upon our harvest fields?
And would Heaven come to us,
For having disarmored our shields?

Haste me to my harp divine,
Haste me to my steed,
Haste me to war as one of thine,
Haste me to paradise freed.

My path is that of the warrior,
To righteousness aligned,
I will not cease to fight the war,
Till Heaven is built in one mind.