Goddess series EIR

Something touched the soul deeply
when seeing her in the Eddas,
something magical, an ineffable charm.
Eir, the sublime figure,
in the heart of an epic tale
bathed in light and mysticism.
Your look, a promise of healing,
of wisdom and courage.
 
The Valkyries, celestial warriors,
are the symbol of strength,
of courage, of kindness.
Eir, above all, an emanation of grace.
I love her because she is a divine mystery,
a link between the world of men and the gods.
It is the reverence for beauty,
by strength, by compassion.
 
Every Valkyrie is a vibrant flame,
a star in the firmament of mythology.
They are the spirit of battle,
the vital breath that guides heroes to Valhalla.
Eir, in essence, is the personification of healing,
of protection, of the original essence,
a guardian who embraces with fierce tenderness.
 
Love for them is not just a distant admiration,
but an intimate connection,
an identification with your noblest qualities.
They are a reflection of human aspirations,
an inspiration to live with bravery and a pure heart.
 
And by loving them, by loving Eir,  
we are celebrating what is most sacred
and eternal in human and divine nature.
It's a dance between worlds,
a tale that continues to resonate,
a love that transcends time and space.

Healer of the Battle-Stricken,
Eir, the Merciful, the Quiet Hand did quicken,
Those who lay there left in sorrow,
Eir they prayed took it away in morrow..

Hail to Eir, the gentle goddess, the third named among the Asynjur bright,  
Mistress of mercy, silent in her might,
Warriors invoke the call to Eir in thick of night.

Handmaid of peace, unseen by day, whose whispers soothe where blood once lay,  
In halls of gods, or shadowed fjord, she brings the healing grace by her accord.

O Eir, you walk where the wounded lie,  
With hands that mend, with breath and sigh,  
On Lyfjaberg’s slope, high and steep,
You guard those who in death might sleep.

Brave warriors clash and steel meets bone,  
And battle cries turn to mournful groan,  
Eir, will come with calm and gentle art,  
Knits together wounded flesh torn apart.  

In the lore of gods, your name is high held,  
In ancient halls, your deeds are love spelled;  
The songs of Skalds recalls how you care,  
As lifeblood flows through air and prayer.  

Much more than mere herb or healing hand,
Your mystery twined by wise command,
They chant beneath the moon of sky,
All prayer that bids the pain to die.

Eir, we call on thee, best of all teachers,  
In times when every hope an stitch breaches,  
Come with your craft, from the realms above,  
And shield us with your mercy, care and love.  

Oft you wander through the mountain paths,  
Where herbs grow thick in shadowed baths,  
Blessed by Odin the dew and northern air,  
In fragrant blooms and roots you laid bare.  

You know where foxglove grows unseen,  
And yarrow’s leaf and mint’s pale in sheen,  
The humble valerian and the sacred moss,  
Whose worth you knew, and shared no loss.  

With fingers light, you pluck and weave,  
A embrocation for those who ache an grieve,  
In love and herbs alone an bear mortal flesh,  
Bringing back to life, when wounds enmesh.  

The Norse folk call, in halls and fairland,  
Held close the gifts of your healing hand,  
For they knew well that wounds could heal,  
If touched by Eir’s soft, sacred healing seal.  

The Heroes fallen and the warriors of old,  
Rise again by your hand, the story we’re told,  
Harald, Gunnlaug, Egil too,
Through Eir’s magic art they were made anew.

The sagas speak of great wounds unbound,  
Yet mortal strength in Eir was then found,  
Her soft touch of godly hands and her voice unseen,  
Bringing peace where death might have been.  

In every war and strife the Norse bear,  
Eir’s gentle spirit will always  fills the air;  
No spell too small, no chant too faint,  
To bid the injured flesh acquaint.  

Eir called when bodies are cut and sore,
She’s prayed to in the Viking lore,
When death is near in every fray,
The goddess Eir can drive its hand away.

Eir was blessed keeper of spells,
the Mending Queen for all that dwells,
Not herbs alone, nor skill, nor song,  
In Eir’s craft, the runes of ancient hang long,  
Each sacred stave, each whispered plea,  
Binds life and flesh in mystery key.  

Through eldritch chants, magic runes inscribed,  
The sacred breath of gods in lore imbibed,  
The Warriors knew her might concealed,  
In words her magic power now it's revealed.  

They sung her charms in low moon’s light,  
Eir worked her magic in the still of night;  
Seemed all could learn to speak her name,  
Although few could even match her flame,  
Eir brought about the end of Pain, time and time again.

Eternal Peace for those that called her name,
No matter who travelled long the road, wounds would grow numb,
Eir’s warm healing light for the dying come,  
And there beneath Eir's caring eyes,  
The weak would find at last a gentle suprise.  

Not only did she make flesh then heal,  
But hearts and minds, in shadows feel,  
The weary souls, whose cries depart,  
Find solace there in Eir’s caring heart.  

O Eir, of Asgard high and bright,  
Your mercy holds the world in light,  
In blood and bond, in herb and rune,  
Your tender touch heals every wound.  

You pray to Eir, these word you would say
Physician of the Gods, the Merciful One. I ask you to speed medical healing, the recovery of illness or injury and it was done

So hail to Eir and the gods above,  
To the silent strength, to the heart of love.