- Lyrics
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Epta Astera
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Ira
Selre bið æghwæm
Þæt he his freond wrece, þonne he fela murne.
Aris, rices weard, uton hraþe feron
Grendles magan gang sceawigan
Ic hit þe gehate: no he on helm losaþ
Ne on foldan fæþm, ne on fyrgen-holt,
Ne on gyfenes grund, ga þær he wille.
Ac he hraþe wolde
Grendle forgyldan guð-ræsa fela,
Ðara þe he geworhte to West-Denum
Oftor micle ðonne on ænne sið
Þonne he Hroðgares heorð-geneatas
Sloh on sweofote. He him þæs lean forgeald,
Ond hine þa heafde becearf.
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