The Prince of Wind was in the world
and sent his breath upon our lamp.
He did not send one single gust
but many from the left and right.
He planned them so to blow and stop,
to flicker our dear given flame,
and hoped to see it smoke to death.
He did not like the light it gave.
He wished it dark as some old grave.

The Priest of God stood close nearby.
He watched the little winds blow by
and came he forth with gentle step
and cupped his hand around our flame
and filled us with his holy oil
so that we'd spark and crackle more.
We burned his hand a little, though,
yet he did not despise the pain,
but smiled to see us flicker so.