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Behold, we are righteous utterly.

The man whose hand is clean, no wrath

From us shall follow: down his path

He goeth from all evil free.

But whoso slays and hides withal

His red hand, swift before his eyes

True witness for the dead we rise:

We are with him to the end of all.

Mother, who didst bear a being

Dread to the eyeless and the seeing,

Night, my Mother!

Leto's Child would wrong me, tear

From my clutch this trembling hare,

My doomèd prey: he bore to slay,

And shall he not the cleansing bear,

He, none other?

But our sacrifice to bind,

Lo, the music that we wind,

How it dazeth and amazeth

And the will it maketh blind,

As it moves without a lyre

To the throb of my desire;

'Tis a chain about the brain,

'Tis a wasting of mankind.

Thus hath Fate, through weal and woe,

For our Portion as we go