Rota Fortunae

Hige sceal þē heardra,      heorte þē cēnre,
mōd sceal þē māre,      þē ūre mægen lytlað.

But shall it? Shall we? We’ve come again to this spot, staring from the valley to the high green walls towering over us. We see no sun, and the fear of evil is upon us. What is a child to do but weep at all the green growth in grief and death in life?

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

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