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Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no

flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty

sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young

light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon

thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, "Woman, what hast

thou got?" No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed

water-it is thy dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find

no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and

it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my

heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and

thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death

for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is

with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left

for me in the world.