No mortal man under the sun , no powers that be, no chains that bind shall constrain him,
For he dwells in the nether, a soul from the grave is He.
His shackles crumble, His chains fall limp onto the ground before his will;
He, the Dweller in the grave, His cries of mingling agony and madness.
No man, no divine breath that course the veins of this universe hold the power to subdue him.
And so the Lord asked - what manner of beast are you?
Your lips breathe folly; your question a sage intellect would never hatch. If you know not what I am - very well, I shall answer.
Know my name, for it is legion.