O, mighty mother gave a birth,
Thus born thy rocks without form.
Cut from the earth, shall infants weep?
When tears are blessed upon thy cribs.
This one is yet to learn its task,
Become the sight the shell shall crack.
Across the marble crowned veins,
His hands are tired and dismayed.
His strength is taken day, by night,
And then all day to chip it right.
Her shape is crude, shall be refined,
By every drop with sweat divine.
The cords of the moon are lashing trails,
Up on her figure and his back.
The candles giving up their shadows,
By slowly fading into night.
And then she froze from hands of master,
Saint crowds argue in applause.
And then her grace is holding aster,
Her looks are heaven to behold.