CHORUS:StropheWhat is the sweet spoken word of God from the shrine of Pytho rich in goldthat has come to glorious Thebes?I am stretched on the rack of doubt, and terror and trembling holdmy heart, O Delian Healer,13 and I worship full of fears185 for what doom you will bring to pass, new or renewed in the revolving years.Speak to me, immortal voice,child of golden Hope.AntistropheFirst I call on you, Athene, deathless daughter of Zeus, and Artemis, Earth Upholder,190 who sits in the midst of the market place in the throne which men call Fame,and Phoebus, the Far Shooter, three averters of Fate, come to us now, if ever before, when ruin rushed upon the state,you drove destruction’s flame away out of our land.
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