These scraps are yours,
Little words running through my head,
Pretty pickings and pairings,
Offering your praise.
Take them, o Lord

And the Void comes,
A yawning mass
That sings sickly lies
-- or are they truths? --
Of the coming nothing
Which will pull you down
And never let go.

But the Light comes,
A resplendent sign
Of the Lord of All,
Skills and men,
Who sings of life,
Everlasting and resplendent,
And will never let go.

King over men
Lugh Lamhfháda, my lord,
fill me with flame, great passion.
Give over Imbas.
Smelt me down, liquid ore,
Make me a blade, my lord.