Oh day of the covenant, Blasphemous, Balaam-priest day. There where your ministers are already greedily waiting on their collections. Yes, with more and more heaps of ceremonial stones, stacked in vain as volk-altar. While the sun will set blood-red over Blood River.

Oh on the day of the covenant, while heaven laughs over a bad offspring’s perjury. In a once-prosperous land, but now just a perished wreck. There where shacks are standing, with squatters squatting everywhere. At Paardekraal, the Mason is still standing arm in arm, in brotherly embrace with his enemy. While the ‘circle of brothers’, pretending to be so humble, kneels before God.

Oh day of the covenant, Blasphemous Balaam-priest-day. Your ministers are already standing in line with their big begging bowl. But the spirits of the Zulu impis of old will let them gasp for breath, terrified. Look, the hidden liberal grave lies open and shallow. While the sun will set blood-red, in God-revenge, over Blood River. Yes, with the once sweet water thereof, now bitter as gall and brackish.