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And the old man peacefully put his snow-white head
Under the axe. The butcher raised his arm.
O miracle! The axe halted
The arm was wooden and never moved again.
And the old man, praying, remains on his knees,
Expecting the blow and the bright wreath
Of glorious martyrdom. Turned into stone were
Arm and axe over the holy saint.
- Get up, you miraculous old man! – The pasha said,
Pale and scared – I have no power over you!
Your God is great and stood Himself
Between you and the grave. Go home.
Evtimii then stood up shining
And sent a glance of gratitude to God.
And the terrible butcher fell in his feet
Kissing the lap of the holy man.
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