Grond was its name, the ram of Mordor,

Wrought in the likeness of wolf's head.

Named after the Hammer of days of yore,

It carried with it Gondor's dread.

Once it challenged Gondor's gate,

The Black Captain cried, thrice it smote.

Though men held the iron gate,

The door's iron failed and broke.

Forth rode the Captain clad in fear,

All fled before him when he came.

All but one, in white he appeared,

Gandalf the Great, amid the flame.

"You cannot enter here," he said,

And the Witch-king revealed his face.

Behold, Crowned was his unseen head,

And down his blade fire laced.

"Old fool!" he said in cruely reply,

As a cock called to herald morn.

From the north there came a cry,

The hopeful song of Rohan's horns.

Forth rode Théoden, Thengel's son,

Forth rode the lords of horsekind,

Amid them unkown fair Èowyn,

And kind Meriadoc, of firm mind.

Against the Haradrim they valiantly fought,

Yet a shadow above filled them with dismay.

The Black Captain on wings came unsought,

As Théoden King fell from Snowmane.

Èowyn fair came to defend the dead,

And stood unfaltering before the Black One.

With one stroke, she hewed his mount's head,

And he rose with hatred from the ruin.

He raised his mace to smote the maiden,

But Merry the Hobbit plunged a blade in his knee.

The shield-maiden struck with her weapon;

Thus fell the Black Captain, lord of fell beasts.

Rode forth then the Prince Imrahil,

But by far they were too few.

Against them thrown was Gothmog's will,

And soon their despair was made anew.

For there upon the Anduin,

Sails of sable flew in the wind.

A corsair fleet indeed was seen,

And their last hopes dimmed.

Èomer of Rohan for his riders called,

And laughed aloud in his grief,

"Now for a ruin and a red nightfall!"

As a ship's flag caught the breeze.

Behold! Wrought by Arwen's hands,

There was the White Tree of Gondor.

The Seven stars shining grand,

And the noble Crown above restored.

Ah! Aragorn son of Arathorn!

Named Envinyatar, Telcontar,

Upon the wind his ships were borne,

The Return of the King, Elessar!

In the hearts of men hope was renewed,

And with fear their foes swiftly fled.

Slain were all of Mordor's brood,

And the grass of Pelennor bled.

With fiery color departed the Sun,

The mountains were crimson red.

With blood did the river run,

And hill and field laded with dead.

Bitter are the losses for one to prevail,

For many will never return to their home.

The Battle of Pelennor is a grieving tale,

But no one shall grieve alone.