Before the God cometh, cometh his grace.
Ha! flash of silver bright as a bolt from the sky
A piercing cry
And straight to the heart of the monster
The arrows of Loxias fly!
Writhe, O Monster, lifting on high.
Now thou must die!
And now from Castaly’s gorge like the beauty of day
Steppeth the God with bow bent broad to the fray
Drawing with lifted arm the shaft to the tip.