How beautiful, how beautiful the earth is!
 The little birds know that;
 They lift their airy feathers
 And sing such joyous songs,
 And sing unto the blue heavens.

 How beautiful, how beatiful the earth is!
 The rivers and lakes know this;
 They paint in their clear mirrors
 The gardens and cities and hills,
 And the clouds that drift above!

 And singers and painters know it,
 And so do many other folk;
 And he who does not paint it, sings it,
 And he who does not sing it,
 His heart rings with it in sheer joy!

Lord, take my hand and guide me
upon my way.
I know You are beside me
till my last day.
I dare not take without Thee
one single stride,
You are concerned about me
both day and night.

Lord, cover in Thy mercy
my erring heart.
Of heaven make me worthy,
when I depart.
Let at Thy feet abide me,
Thy will to know.
Thy hand will ever guide me
in weal and woe.

Though I may feel you hide Thee
and all Thy might,
still to my goal You guide me
e’en through the night.
So nothing can impede me
upon my way,
as Thy dear hand will lead me
till my last day.

Upon a rose-tree there burgeoned
A little bud in the garden,
And whoever saw it could hardly wait
To see the blooming of the rose.
The rose chafer came flying,
Buzzed round about in an arc:
Little rose, when will you bloom?

In the early morning, bright dew sparkled
Upon the little bud, the young [little bud],
Madame Nightingale was looking over the roses,
Checking what had come up overnight.
She sat in the green branches,
Singing a magically sweet lay:
Little rose, when will you bloom?

Along, too, came a blonde maiden
To look at the rose-child,
To see if in the warm sunshine
It had opened up yet.
With her red lips
She kissed it as well:
Little rose, when will you bloom?

The next day with a loyal spirit
A noble lad broke it from its stem
And carried it to the dear maiden
As a fresh morning-gift.
The little rose and he who took it
Were both welcomed there,
Little rose, when will you bloom?