The journey ends, at last the pilgrims have arrived
This barren rock, this holy isle of tides
Ten thousand saints have travelled here before
This frozen land awaits ten thousand more
The wailing of the lonely pipes drifts o'er the sea
O, who would build an abbey here?
This barren rock, this holy isle of tides
Ten thousand saints have travelled here before
This frozen land awaits ten thousand more
The wailing of the lonely pipes drifts o'er the sea
O, who would build an abbey here?
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