The descendents, startled by the news,
I see them humbled, in endless order.
He descends, an angel in flight
to a beauteous church on cursed ground.
What tribe were we? What breed?
What evil thought blurred our sight?
The angel on the barren wall
trembles: clear is the speech of the beam.
Sight divine. Word of God
all of Nebregovo gathers together
in the ancient call of an ancient faith.
No revenge now, no waving of the sword
the beauteous church rises
from the splendid beam with which it blazes.