Posted on 02/14/2015 10:13:29 PM PST by Nachum
The saga of which I sing today is a tale most remarkable: My song comes from Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, where war-heroes go to their rest. All those who have fallen in the fight, and borne wounds yet toiled unto death, from the beginning of the world, are come to the company of the great god Odin.
Indeed, at a time of troublesome tumult on the earth, there is even greater news from Valhalla: Men should know that Odin has decided that it is now time to win the War of the Fourteen Centuries. That is, the War that began when the Muslims conquered Jerusalem, 1378 years ago. It is time, finally, for vengeance. These are the ways of Odin, Lord of Valhalla.
Yes, Valhalla is a wondrous place, sitting as it does amidst the snow-clad slopes of Asgard. It is, indeed, a suitable reward for brave berserkers who have tasted human blood and who shed their own scarlet life-wine on the blasted heaths of battle. And by the iron code of the warrior way, when the dead have fallen, they rise. Their bodies are chosen by the Goddess Freyja and carried by the lovely Valkyries to the ancient gate of Valgrind. Yes, the Ride of the Valkyries: perhaps you know it. Or perhaps you know the Vietnam War version—same idea.
From Valgrind, thence the heroes enter into the hallowed hall itself, where tall spear-shafts hold up the high vaulted roof, thatched with combat-shields. Under this sheltering canopy of steel, the Slain can spend their days gazing at the sun-glinted peaks of the ivory mounts, and then spend their nights drinking the clearest of mountain-brewed mead, recalling their fighting days—days of blood and heavy metal.
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Magical Shape Shifters again?
Oops, wrong thread`
Ah, ah,
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow.
The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands,
To fight the horde, singing and crying: Valhalla, I am coming!
On we sweep with threshing oar, Our only goal will be the western shore.
Ah, ah,
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your overlords.
On we sweep with threshing oar, Our only goal will be the western shore.
So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing.
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