Make ends meet

itself and thee With its foreboding presence?

Woe! Woe! Oh could I free me from the thoughts That hither, thither, crowd

upon my brain, Against my will!

Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla.

Grim horror seizes thee! The trumpet sounds! The graves are shaken! And

thy heart From ashy rest For torturing flames A new created, Trembles into

Would I were hence! It is as if the organ Choked my breath, As if the choir

Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet adparebit, Nil inultum remanebit.