His is the power, the regiment of the stars,
He holds the world in his fist like a nut,
Laughter wreathes itself immortally about his face,
War is his being and triumph is his step.
And where he is and where he spreads his hands,
And where his cry thunders tyrannically downward
Everything that is unjust in all of creation crumbles,
And all things become God and [become] one.
Unconquerable are the tears of the good one,
Building material of the world and water of creation;
Where his good tears drop,
Every form consumes itself and awakens to a new consciousness of itself.
There is no wrath comparable with his.
He stands upon the pyre of his life,
And at his feet writhes, lost,
The devil, a trampled worm of fire.
And when he departs from this life, then at his side there remain
Two angels, whose heads touch the spheres,
And roar rejoicing under gold and fire,
And thunderously clap their shields.