---

Six Seventy Two, near Exeter
That's where Winfreth was born
to sail the Frisian sea
to know the taste of scorn

A mission for the Pope and thus
He became Bonifatius
converting minds of the pagans
demolishing their influence

Of Jesus Christ a pilgrim
On his doomed path of the Cross
attempts he made to doing well
Would gain him the ultimate loss

He’d tear down holy oaks of Thor
To grow as churches ‘fore their eyes
He’d say the pagan gods were dead:
“No lightning from the skies!”

In Seven Hundred Fifty Four
His end was coming near
pursued by men in hostile swamps
His horse sank drowned in fear

Forsaken missionary man
Who hid behind his holy book
With which he shielded his old flesh
'gainst mighty blows of swords he took

A Frisian retribution
The blood of the blasphemer shed
The hammer of Thor's wrath came down
On Bonifatius's head.

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.