You are fresh words
on the old stone of time.

Here, silence honors you,
here now, the earth turns,
the sun beats, the rain sings.

You are not adrift
among the wheeling constellations
but held by the hoop of love.

Ancient as the ring of standing stones,
prophetic as a snow-ring round the moon,
marriage is.

Wear your vows well when laughter
is the wine between you

or when night lies like a bolster
down the middle of your bed.

May the cold shoulder of the hill
always afford you shelter.
May the sun always seek you
however dark the place.

We who are wordless know
thorns have roses.

And when you go from this day
the burnished stars go with you.

When you go forward from this day,
the love that grew you
grows with you

and marriage is struck,
iron on stone, hand in hand.

Yeese are chippit new
intae the auld stane o time.

Here, awthing faws quate fur yeese,
here noo, sunlicht skirls,
rain diddles, the yirth birls.

Yeese are no alane
amang the hurlin constellations
but cleikit tae thon gird cried love.

Aulder than ony circle o staunin stanes,
shair as a snaw-ring roon the mune,
mairrige is.

Weer yer vows weel when kecklin
is the ale atween yeese

or when nicht draps like a bolster
doon the middle o yer bed.

Let the cauld shooder o the ben
aywis coorie ye kindly.
Let the sun aywis hunt ye
hooever daurk yon place.

We wha haud oor wheesht ken
thorns hae roses.

And when ye gang fae this day
the skinklin staurs gang wi ye.

When ye gang furrit fae this day,
the love that grew ye
growes wi ye

and mairrige is wrocht,
iron oan stane, haund in haund.