HE IS RISEN!

196

The Hávamál

 139

I ween that I hung on the windy tree,

Hung there for nights full nine;

With the spear I was wounded, and offered I was

To Odin, myself to myself,

On the tree that none may ever know

What root beneath it runs.

140

None made me happy with loaf or horn,

And there below I looked;

I took up the runes, shrieking I took them,

And forthwith back I fell.

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