The Battle of the Most Devoted Believer

By Tyler Thoms

Þæt wæl-stōw      forþrysmode mid līcum,
Se blōd fyrdrinca      foldena þurstas leċeþ.
Iċ fielle      fīendas twēgen— 
Þā synne fāge      fīendum frēanes— 
Ac fēower ma      gīetaþ þone feld.
Min magas      ymbe mē slæhtaþ sindon;
We fǣġe forþferan,      wælgrime wīġe
Forwordenesse for      hāliġan hām ūre.
Iċ ġeseah frea      on þone felde onwhīle.
Sċīman sweord his      scimerede mid heofonleōmum.
Blōd ūre fēonda      blostmode ġelīċan blēdum
Dropan blodes befēollon      to þone foldan
Ġelīċan blēdum      fram ġierdum rotiaþ,
Swa frea fielde min      yfel fēondum ānwīglīce,
His cynegierelan      clǣnan.
Þisne wæl-stōw      þa þe stande on iċ
Is īdelan Godes.      Hu wit mæġ feohtan
For frēan hwonne he hafaþ      his dryht ānforlēt?
Min magas tealtriaþ,       hira sweorda ecgum grētaþ grund;
His feohtaþ alibban,      ac iċ feohte for frēan.
Iċ ġesēo se      deorc-feðra
Lācaþ ofergāþ, fȳsan gewistian      on min magas weorþaþ hrǣwum.
Iċ wille feohtan oþ      se grǣġ-pāda āhǣtt mē.
Þone scaðan      stingþ mē.
Min blōd rīet      min ansien sweðel.
Iċ wille wyrd wolde      frēfran mē,
And mē ġeann geseon      min ansien frēan leofes eft.
Becwelan æt beadu for frea      eom min miċel ġeþingþe ac
Mæġ iċ geseon      him hwīlum and
Mæġ min blostm-dēag blōd      ne besyle him.

Translation

The slaughter-field choked with corpses,
Soldiers’ blood slakes the earth’s thirst.
I fell two enemies—
Those sin-stained enemies of God—
But four more flood the field.
My kinsmen surrounding me are slain;
We are fated to die, this fateful fight
A failure for our holy homeland.
I saw God on the battlefield once.
His splendent sword shone with holy radiance.
Our enemies’ blood fluttered to the field
Like petals from rotting branches,
As my God felled those rotten enemies single-handedly,
His royal robes unstained.
This slaughter-field I stand upon
Is bereft of God. How might we fight
For God when he has abandoned his army?
My kinsmen waver, their sword edges greeting the ground;
They fight to live, but I fight for God.
I see those dark-feathered ones
Soaring overhead, preparing to feast on my kinsmen turned carrion.
I will fight until the grey-coated one calls me.
An enemy stabs me.
My blood stains my bandaged face.
I wish fate would be kind to me,
And let me see my beloved God’s face again.
To die in battle for God is my greatest honor, but
Let me see him once more and
Let my flower-colored blood not stain him.