This thrice-potent god precisely
Works our woe, and weaves our sorrow.
He with madness stings the marrow,
And with greed that thirsts for blood;
Ere to-day’s is dry, the flood
Flows afresh to-morrow.
STROPHE IV.
Chorus.
Him, even him, this terrible god, to bear
These walls are fated;
From age to age he worketh wildly there