The Path of the Hunter
I am not a healer, nor a simple maker of mead.
I move through the forest in stealth.
My cunning outwits the bird and fox, I wear their skins against mine.
I'm equally at home in these woods, they take up my sacredest time.
Oh Herne, oh God, or Great ones still, bless my bow this day,
show me in this time of plenty the right of the hunters way.
I love the creatures that I kill, my weapon of choice is one of skill,
no guns, no flash, no lead wrecks the meat, that to my family I lay at their feet.
Subsistance is the way, you see, what I kill I kill for me,
no trophies hang upon my walls,
for the lord of the hunt is lord of all.
Blessed spear that take the elk and deer, I know why you've brought me here
Rage on with him at my side, the lord of the hunt, lord of the ride,
YES, in my faith some blood DOES spill, the blood of a sacred kill,
better to hunt my meat out here than buy trampled cow, mass farmed steer.
You tell me this is not the way to honor my lord and lady's day,
yet curse when the herd lacks a warden and the deer destroy your city garden.
Hippocrites who lay upon their altar images of our blessed father,
in this day you forget his nature, not a gentle breeze, but non-violence's stranger.
Curse you, damn you, who get in my way, go to your markets and farms this day,
but if my family is to eat, I must catch this sacred meat.
don't you see him in the sun, the image of the sacred one?
He's no goddess' lesser, no deified runt.
My lord is The God of the Hunt.
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