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
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