Behold the mystery of toil
O you who are taken in the toils of mystery
The spade of the husbandman is the sceptre of the king
At the end of labour is the power of labour
I disport myself in the ruins of Eden
Ecen as Leviathan in the false sea
And the sorrow that blackens your heart
Is the myriad deaths by shick I am renewd
Behold the mystery of toil
O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
All the heavens beneath me they serve me
They are my fields and my gardens and my orchards and pastures
My blood is wine and my breath the fire of madness
I life myselfe above the crown of the yod
I swin in the inviolate fountain
Glory unto the Rose and the Cross
For the cross is extended unto the uttermost end
Beyond space and time being and knowledge and delight
Glory unto the Rose that is the minute point of this center
She is Nuit the circumference of all
And glory unto the Cross that is the heart of the Rose
Behold the mystery of toil
O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
The whirlings of the universe are but the course of the blood in my heart
And its variety but my divers hairs
That shick I think to be myself is but infinite number
The change which you lament is the life of my rejoicing
The instability which makes your fear
Is the waverings of balance by which I am assured