Once our country, ever growing,
Flourished peacefully before;
Churches filled to overflowing,
Ev'ry Sunday bringing more;
In the schoolhouse, faces beaming,
Children's voices would resound;
Scythe and sickle, brightly gleaming,
Harvested the fertile ground.

Now church gatherings have ended,
Schools are locked and silence keep;
Groves in darkness left untended,
Ripened fields with none to reap.
And the village, like a lonely
Burned-down dwelling place, stands bare.
All is still, the graveyard only
is not silent, growing there.

Ev'ry moment dead are carried
By the living, who with dread
Pray to God, as each is buried,
That His peace may calm the dead.
Ev'ry moment there are places
Needed as each is interred,
Pressing close in narrow spaces,
Gathered like a frightened herd.

If the grave commands me early
That my spring shall never be,
You, whom I have loved so dearly,
And whose love is joy to me,
I implore: from her be hidden,
Far from Jenny's body stay;
Her dead lips are now forbidden,
Follow her from far away.

Leave the village, stay no longer,
Seek another place to dwell;
Let your weary soul grow stronger,
all your torments to dispel.
When the plague has left forever,
Find my lowly grave somehow:
Jenny's love for Edmund never
Falters, though in heaven now!