Lung-deep well, feeder of the tree/the Wyrd, weaving from the seep
climbing up the roots, through Nifolham we seek/the fog-eyed Drymenn of the hunt.

We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare
long the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's foam.

On Sleipnir's stolen back, we drive far into the wood/hear the cry of our bones
we have come to wake the world with our screams/Woden, take our kill.

We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare.
Lo, the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's moan.

We, moldweg/þone willað/úre eardlufe bedælað
siððan wintera iú/ond wé, þonan/wód prútlíce
ofer lyfta gebind/hwær wé, feor oððe neah/þeah þæm beorhtan æsce
findað mihte/þe, in Esangearde/þone wildene fyrnwitan.

Logs of ice, snarling mouth of flame/with mist we craft, in mist we wreak our game.
Lend us your tooth to carve into the gloaming
tree-deep the spear thrust into our hungry roaming.

We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare.
Lo, the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's moan.

Woden! Hyge! Myne! Woden!

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