Not gold, not silver

but precious blood

bought me, lost,

from Satan's power.

Peace! Peace! Drum of the Cross,

which crumpled in lingering pain on Golgotha

in order to publish the news from heaven

deep in the pits of this country.

Hom! Hom! to the Drum of the Cross

whose blood was shed in torment

from earth right up to the skies

so even the stubborn wears a crown.

The sun will rise in the courtyard!

The witches’ huts should be clustered.

Gabriel will strike from heaven

and heaven's thunder shatters boxwood.

He'll come as if bearing a roof

yet he's bearing the whole of the firmament.

He'll trample death and the ancient snake,

angels that step on him slip.

Hom! Hom! to the Drum of the Cross

who atoned for our sins with his blood,

and he smeared it on the doorposts

so even the damned attain bliss.

He's here! The Drum of the Cross,

hide that thumps in walking.

He trampled the enemies’ heads,

he stabbed them and took them as spoil!

He's here! The Drum of the Cross,

Bird that feeds high in the yellowwood.

Pasop! When it goes past, it goes past with corpses,

the heavenly striker with oracles.

Trample Satan, the ancient snake,

his cheeks chafed from all his lies,

fling him to Hades for Hell to gnaw at:

the blood witnesses now are present.

Huntshu! You were wrong, Death, to mock us,

saying grass would grow rife in the churches.

There he is! Jesus struck enemies,

he trampled their heads and took them as spoil.

The sun will rise in the courtyard,

Toughbreast from Gabriel's home.

The dumb spoke in Decapolis,

he raised the dead in Bethany.

Collector of diverse households,

collect Africa by your blood

so that you rule our people

through the hunting shield of your Word.

May your bones that lay in Death

dance at the Gate of Africa,

so you mount that Hill of Calvary

bearing our cries to the Father.