Through bitter years, o'er Asia's dismal plain,
The chieftan's yurt leads all the savage train,
A dusty ship upon a dusty main;
Its axle screaming as its tortured wood
Berates the oxen, tugging at the shaft,
Which sooner far, if so they couild,
Had hove the anchor of their desert craft;
But dared not so beneath the savage goad
The child that drove them wielded with a will
That sent them crawling forward with their load,
The mighty servants of one mightier still --
The slaves of one who, ere his sun has set,
Will blaze a trail mankind shall ne'er forget
And for a thousand years shall tremble yet. 

Inevitable, then, that Timujin
Should face the rigors of that life and win
Eternal glory in the battle's din.
As yet a child in stature and in years
He tends the horse herds by the reedy lakes
That dot the great plateau that boldly rears
So near the clouds, where howling wind storm takes 
Its toll of suff'ring, while it gives to him
The attributes that are to make him known
In glory fear nor hate may ever dim --
The Scourge of God, who mastered every throne;
The Perfect Warrior he, whose god was gore;
Who slew a brother in the days before
His beard; who was to slay his millions more.