You think these ropes hold me? You think this dark cell,

Is a victory won? A breaking of hell?

You stand there so proud, in your steel and your faith,

But you know in your hearts—you are merely a wraith.

I am the North Wind. I am the tide's turn.

I am the lesson you never will learn.

You may take my arms, you may take my life's breath,

But you cannot chain me. You cannot chain death.

My body may bleed here, on your stone, foreign floor,

But my soul is already half-way to that door—

The door of Valhalla, where the brave never end,

Where I'll drink with my brothers, my foe and my friend.

And what waits for you? A slow, creeping decay,

To kneel in your churches, to wither away.

To pray for a heaven you're too weak to earn,

While your bones turn to dust and your spirits never burn.

You call me a heathen? A demon? A beast?

I have stood eye-to-eye with your god at his feast.

I have taken the wealth that you prayed he would save.

I am bolder in capture than you in your grave.

So bring out your priest with his words soft and mild.

I'll laugh in his face like a true Northern child.

Your cross is but timber, your prayers are but air,

And I do not regret. And I do not care.

So swing your bright steel. Light your fire. Begin.

You can murder the man, but the Viking will win.

For every blow struck, for each truth that I yell,

I am forging the song that the skalds will soon tell.

Of the free man who died in a land of the slave,

Unbent and unbroken and fearless and brave.

So do what you must, little men, full of dread.

I am already living. You are already dead.