Hymne Iii - Wolf And Hatred

O wanderer in this infernal night Believe not his hate will spare thee His prey shall be no one But thee - Who shall tremble when he is near In foolish hope for shelter And thou - Whose bloode strong wine shall be Thy soule, his sacred trophie In vein he lets thee shed Thy bloode in this sea of payne Then shalt thou not haunt thine friends Revealing: "the wolf is he!" Coldlie thy bloode shall flow As streams through graves below God is not here, but death draws near And secondes are o, so few In a nature twofold they shine Beginning and end combine Fool, thou art prostrate By the raging eyne of his Lifted upwards Rapt in moonshine