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Balrog! Balrog! Burning bright!
In Moria's endless night!
Not even Sauron's great eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry.
Where in Varda's pristine skies
Burned the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
That Morgoth dared seize the fire?
And what shoulders, and what art,
Could flesh the sinews of thy heart,
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread whip, and what dread heat!
When the elves took up their spears,
And watered Varda with their tears,
Did he smile, his work to see?
Did he who made the orc make thee?
Balrog, Balrog, burning bright!
In Moria's endless night!
Not even Sauron's great eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetery.