Waking in the night to pray,
Sleeping when the answer comes,
Foolish are we even at play-
Tearfully we beat our drums!
Cast the good dry bread away,
Weep, and gather up the crumbs!
'Evermore,' while shines the day,
'Lord,' we cry, 'thy will be done!'
Soon as evening groweth gray,
Thy fair will we fain would shun!
'Take, oh, take thy hand away!
See the horrid dark begun!'
'Thou hast conquered Death,' we say,
'Christ, whom Hades could not keep!'
Then, 'Ah, see the pallid clay!
Death it is,' we cry, 'not sleep!
Grave, take all. Shut out the Day.
Sit we on the ground and weep!'
Gathering potsherds all the day,
Truant children, Lord, we roam;
Fret, and longer want to play,
When at cool thy voice doth come!-
Elder Brother, lead the way;
Make us good as we go home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem