When I see, in our dark and decaying
house, the old weaponry hanging
angrily, twinkling in their rust
when day has dawned
and the last sound has faded
where, in the wild movement of the storm,
bowed over the crossed sword,
once lived the saviour of the land;

and when I see a new species of dwarves
scampering dizzily about the rocks,
bold when it is sunny on the mountains,
fearful and writhing when storms come,
hawking their Saviour's blood and tears
once again with ridicule, 
drowning without lament, desire and yearning,
in the river of time;

if then I contemplate how you stood 
faithfully, when no one else remained faithful:
then, thinking of our dishonor 
and burning deeply with angry love,
I want to sink roots into the marrow of the rocks,
and up to heaven's clear expanse,
aiming mutely, like a strong
giant pine, raise myself.