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Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows!
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our longing hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,[1]
No weary, wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
And the gale that fans our brows!
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our longing hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,[1]
No weary, wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
- ↑ " Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen
Wo kein schnee mehr ist"
Schiller's Nadowessiche Todtenklage
