Oh, Tayet, Divine Mother of Threads,
Thy sacred name a tapestry we spread;
Beneath the radiant Egyptian sky,
Sweet Lady of Linen, to Thee we bow.
Thou, most adorned with garbs woven fine,
Cloth’st our Kings, and gods their strength define.
Whence flax adorns the sacred, tender stem,
Thy mercies with Creation therein blend.
Goddess of Weaving, hallowed and blessed,
With sacred touch Thy gifts do by best.
O’ curtain of horizon, pure and bright,
Present in the sun’s journey, dark’ning night.
Hastily dost thou their wounds fill
By gentle swathe of embalming skill.
Thou, She Who Clothes the King, acquire
The love of all, a mother entire.
Spread Thy love ‘cross those here below,
And wrap bandages on Kings forego’d.
Lastly, protect us, all life’s end,
When mummy bandages round us bend.
In everlasting awe we caress
Thy tapestry’d mantle of tenderness.
For when, at last, our lives unwound,
In Tayet’s embrace are we surely bound.
