He is the lifted oar, lift up the latch, or be lift, we need not oar, for the Lord hath made her with a gift, a gift of finest gold, gold that was never bought or sold, but to be strewn about his head, his hands he crowns not about his head. Born for her child, rest has not his sleep, but for his comfort holds with us, and she, and all about his bed, for each he has a gift, see how his eyes awake, lift up your hands, or lift, for God's he gives a key bestowed, defend with it thy little rope, for incense smoke of battle red, love for the honoured hath he dead, gifts for his children terrible and sweet. Amen.
