Sing Not Of Surt

O Sol, sing not of Surt
whose blackened hands burnt
by sun's fires, blackened
the beauty of dawning day.
Whatever hands may beauty craft
do crumble when those hands
the same do crush the light.
Rise from falling fall, be fierce,
O Sol, and sear the soiled hands
of Surt again, that all
may feel your blazing bright,
and awe, in imitation,
striding tall with fiery strength.