Hail Thor whose name brings terror
to the hearts of the unrighteous and impious,
slayer of the wicked and monstrous,
strong one who drives back chaos and destruction,
wielder of the staff Gríðarvölr which renders
curses, disease, and grievous wounds powerless.
Once, they say, you and your charge Þjálfi
were on a great sea-journey when you came
ashore at Hlésey, where the Gods often feasted
in the great hall of their good friend Jötunish Ægir;
but this day there was no banquet or plentiful
horns of mead to be found, but instead an island
entirely desolate, sorrowful and unmanned.
All the womenfolk had been driven mad from their
homes into the wild places by Óðr who was furious
with them. She-wolves they seemed, and scarcely women
any longer as they danced and ran about screaming
with hair unbound, wearing beast-skins with serpents for torcs,
and nothing on beneath, brandishing iron cudgels and axes
as if they weighed nothing, and eating the raw
and bloody flesh of animals they captured
and with their bare hands tore to pieces.
Þjálfi had not even finished securing your ship
when a throng of them rushed down onto the beach
and began flinging iron, rocks and leafy missiles
ripped straight from the tree at you and servile Þjálfi,
who fled the scene in abject fear. You endured their assault
Thor, and then smote each of the false-bitches in turn
with Gríðarvölr, restoring their stolen sanity to them.
You then walked the length and breadth of Hlésey,
hunting the women down and informing
their trembling husbands that it was safe to come out
of hiding once more, and Þjálfi came too.
To this day your festival is kept among them
loud-roaring and thundering redeemer,
and your memory shall endure among us forever too,
O Thor the mighty, vanquisher of his foes.