Hear me, Dionysos who weaves the war-dance
like a net for the capture of ensouled creatures,
savage and pure, roaring bull-horned Zagreus
who leads his hosts in battle, frenzied,
beastial and thirsting for bloody carnage,
my beautiful, mad God.
Turn tail and run you brave-hearted phalanxes
when you hear the ash-spears of the Bacchants
begin to pound the earth in time to the tympanum
and trumpet, ivy-twined feet stomping, stamping,
thundering, beating out a staccato rhythm of martial menace
as every throat shrieks, “Io Bakchos!”
Run now, O sons of pitying fathers when you hear that,
for once the dance is done they will descend upon you.
Above the din and tumult, hear me, O Dionysos
with the red face, double of Thracian Ares, for this I pray;
strengthen my body, make my will resolute,
drive from me all uncertainty, fear and weakness
and remind me what things are worth passionately fighting for.
Ever shall I stand with you, my Lord,
in defense of the things you cherish
and those who adore you.