Crossing over, the trudge begins, through barren marsh and ceaseless winds. Mourn thy departed soul, torn from your mortal coil. On this forsaken moor may you find, among the thorns, that rugged ground you tread holds passage for the dead. About the fire, upon the fleet, here is where those comforts leave me. Hold not dear all your sorrows for they will only fan the flames. This night, this body will endure the torment my God and Creator deems it worthy to receive. Heathen, avert your fickle eyes, plead for an absent saviour's hand. Whether you’d a life of splendour or squalor, this mire will surely see it end.