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Aréir is mé ag machnamh ar Íosa mac m’AtharA daoradh le peannaid go tréithlag sa Pháis, A raibh a mhínchneas á ghearradh le sciúirsí go daingean Ar an daorchrois á cheangal Dé hAoine chun báis, A Íosa, a mhic Mhuire, saor sinn ón tine, ’S ná scaoil sa choire géar sinn go bráth, Is de réir mar a thuigim do dhlí-se gur bhriseas, Lem smaointe, lem choirthibh is nach éachtach é ár gcás.
A mhéirligh is a pheacaigh, atá claon i do labhairt, Séan do dhrochbheatha agus géill do Mhac Dáith’, Is má dhéanfairse seasamh san méid úd do chaitheamh Ní baolach do d’anam go bhfaighidh aon drochbhás, A Mháire is a bhruinneall, gráim tú lem chumann, Soláthar dom ionad i bhfochair Rí Geal na nGrást, Mar a mbíonn ceolta binn á seinm, glóire á ligint Do gach n-aon bocht againne; go réití ár gcás.
A Rí Ghil na cruinne, gráim tú le taitneamh, Féachaint ar m’anam ’s gan é a ligint chun fáin, Is ó thraochais an t-allas le d’fhuil naofa ina ceathanna, Le haon toil le d’Athair chun an cine daonna a shábháil, Bhí na Giúdaigh á ghearradh ’s á bhualadh go daingean, Ní raibh trua acu ná taise dá nImpire na nGrást, Bhí a mháithrín ina aice go dúchroíoch faoi mhairg, Is í ag féachaint ar a leanbh a traochadh sa Pháis.
Gach créatúr atá ar buile nár ghéill riamh do Mhuire, Lá an tSléibhe nuair a thiocfaidh sea chífidh an t-uafás, Blaomfaidh an tine, na sléibhte dá mbriseadh, An ghrian uainn ag sileadh ’s na réalthainn ar lár, Tiocfaidh Micheál Naofa le fuinneamh ’s a throimpéad aige á sheinim Ag glaoch ar gach n-aon ó thír is ó thráigh, Beidh a chlaonbhearta scrite ar chlár éadain gach nduine ’S a Rí Ghléighil, cuir sinne ar thaobh do dheasláimh’.
Last night as I reflect on Jesus son of my Father A weak sentenced to punishment in the Passion, A was charged with sciúirsí mhínchneas firmly on the daorchrois requiring Friday to death, Jesus, son of Mary, save us from fire, and a sharp drop in crime to doom us, is as I understand your law-se that bhriseas, Lem thoughts, my prodigy choirthibh not our case.
A robber 's rule is a sinner, is perverse in your talk, clip your jaw dhrochbheatha and Mac Glendaw', is if the amount in question dhéanfairse position to spend not a danger to your soul finds no drochbhás, Mary is a bhruinneall, you gram my club, Provide me instead accompanied King Clear the Grace, How is playing music from being sweet, glory be to let your poor and each of ours; solutions to our case.
Whitechurch King of the universe, you gram enjoyment, watch my soul and not to allow to stray, is from thraochais the sweat to blood a sacred showers, With no will to your Father to mankind save, was the Jews being cut and being struck firmly, did not pity them or their nImpire humidity of Grace, was a mother near a dúchroíoch in woe, is looking at a child to fatigue in the Passion.
All creatures are furious not concede ever for Mary Day Mountain has become a sea will see the horror, Blaomfaidh the fire, the man his dismissal, the sun from us flowing and réalthainn center, enter Michael Holy energy and he will be sheinim throimpéad calling all persons from countries from shore, will chlaonbhearta scrite on forehead every person and King Ghléighil, add us on your right hand '.
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