Arise, arise well, ye residents of Crete, raise high the banner of the cross,
Let the white cliffs sparkle in the crimson ornament of blood!
 
Ours is this country that lifts itself mightily from the sea;
Ours shall it remain until the ocean buries murderously it anew!
 
Ours is the plethora of wheat, ours the blazing of wine,
Ours the veins of minerals that rest in the eternal mountains.
 
Ours are the hundred cities, proudly named once in song --
Alas, there remain few villages, horribly destroyed and grimly burned!
 
Ours are the chaste roses, stemming from Greek blood;
Shall the barbarian, enflamed with wild lust, deflower them?
 
Once before already Crete's freedom washed itself white in vile blood:
From the blood of the Minotaur blossomed renown and poetic glory.
 
It was Theseus from Athens, who boldly slew the monster:
Now, Athens, help to murder the Turks this day with right and justice!
 
Arise, you righteous Minos who holds the scales of Hades,
May you be the judge of your people, may you argue with the Christian world,
 
Which treacherously binds us all about, commanding submission,
Which already threatens the bold warriors of the cross with new chains.
 
But woe, woe to everyone who hinders the steps of the people
Who go to battle for freedom, for revenge shall obliterate him along with them!
 
Serve no one, people of Crete! You who gave judges to the underworld
May also brandish lightly your own mace in unshackled hands!
 
Therefore arise well, ye residents of Crete, raise high the cross and high the spear,
And may the horse-hooves of the Ottomans nevermore tread upon your soil!