Ef veröldin vissi að hve miklu leyti
þú þjáðist á krossinum þínum,
myndi trú hjá oss brenna eins og þúsund sólir.

Þeir munu aldrei þekkja
þyrnana sem stungu í þig,
eða hvössu flísarnar sem brunnu á bakinu.

Jafnvel þú, Drottinn vor,
spurðir Föðurinn af hverju;
Æ, sjáðu ekki vort trúleysi!

Fyrirgef þú oss syndugum mönnum;
veit þú oss þína miskunn;
börnin þín erum týnd;
þó ég allra týndastur.

Herregud, jeg påkaller Deg.
Jeg ber Deg om ikke noe stort
eller noe som endrer verdens evighet.

Jeg ber Deg om å rense min sjel,
og føre meg til det gode, omgitt av
en verden hvori jeg angrer meget.

Jeg ber Deg om å dyrke min tro
slik at jeg dyrker Deg på den måten
som fortjenes og trenges.

Jeg ber Deg særlig om å forsyne
min slekt med helse og nåde,
selv om ikke alle innser Ditt ansikts lys.

Men mitt siste ønske ber jeg mest innvilges;
jeg ber Deg om å tilgi oss alle, Herregud,
Freds Prins, i all Din herlighet.

Led alle Dine falne barn
inn i Din evige tilstedeværelse.

"Brothers will fight one another
and **** one another.
Cousins will break peace
with one another.
The world will be a hard place to live in.

"…an age of the axe, an age of the sword,
an age of storms, an age of wolves.
Shields will be cloven."

Brothers fought one another
and killed one another.
Cousins broke peace
with one another.
The world was a hard place to live in.

But this is no battlefield of
gods and men
Nor triumph over fell beast
and the splitting of shields.

This is the exploding shell
down cobbled streets of old;
of thatched roofs ablaze,  
the ashen ruin of hearth and abode;
The weeping eye of Theotokos
in Ragnarǫk’s gaze.

Two decades before;
football on Christmas morn’.
'Stille Nacht' from the trench,
that soothing tune.

Giving of gifts and handshakes
And smiles in between,
When it first dawned upon you:
You were brothers.

See your gathered people,
Huddled in a house of stone
clad in bloom.
A chilled aura
lit by candle light.

There was a young man from Gibraltar,
Whose loyalty never did falter,
A wince of despair
And pain filled the air
As his coffin was brought to the altar

A battalion stationed off France,
Were commanded when to advance.
But one would tell
Of his living hell
As his comrades littered the expanse.

The Thompson’s youngest son Mark,
Really was quite a bright spark.
His family cried
When they heard that he died,
In a trench alone in the dark.