I
On a hillside in a beech wood
a tiny church with a low spire;
its bells can be heard ringing loud
in the grove and hamlet quite near.
Those bells ring not feebly at all,
they are not lost in the hillside;
they sound out a dark wooden call,
bring folk to the house of the Lord.

Up from the hamlet, God praising,
hurries a crowd, wending its way;
the village folk are God-fearing,
and it is Good Friday today.

The church is gloomy, walls all bare;
a black veil conceals the altar
and a cross has been fixed up there;
the Passion is sung by the choir.

Something white over there’s moving,
in the dark woods beyond the brook.
Some village woman is coming,
she’s holding something in her arms.
The woman’s coming quickly, look,
what fine festive clothes she’s wearing,
up on the hill, beyond the brook—
a little baby in her arms.
Running down, the woman comes nigh,
hurries to the house of the Lord:
here on the woodland slope nearby
stands the church built on this hillside.
Close to the stream, there down below,
she suddenly quickens her pace,
for a sharp breeze begins to blow,
from the church is heard in full voice
the choir singing in unison
a hymn to Christ the Lord’s Passion.
She runs, she runs beside a rock:
“What’s that? Can that be what I see?
Are my senses deceiving me?”
She stops, around her takes a look—
hurriedly her steps retraces,
stops, then goes back a few paces—
“This forest and bushes I know,
the path across the fields below—
I have not lost my way, oh no!
Oh Lord, whatever’s going on?
Why am I not here by that stone?
What is it that’s changed here today?”
Again she stops, then makes her way,
It seems she’s taken by surprise,
with her hands she’s rubbing her eyes,
takes a step further, coming near:
“Oh Lord, what’s changed? All’s different here!”

Here among bushes spreading wild,
the church three hundred feet away,
a massive rock was in the road,
what’s this that meets the eye today?
The woman’s now faced with this scene—
above, an entrance yawning wide,
she cannot tell what it may mean,
a rock is placed across the road,
it seems as though this great rock face
belonged for ages in this place.
The woman sees, looking around,
a passageway under the ground,
from flintstone a vault there fashioned,
and where the vault comes to an end
in the dark within the hillside,
a flame of some sort is revealed.
And that flame burns a brilliant white,
as bright as the moon’s rays at night,
now rich deep red it glows in turn,
like a beautiful setting sun.

At this sight the woman is stunned
and she moves towards the entrance,
shading her eyes, raising her hand,
she gazes into this bright place.
“How brightly that flame shines, oh Lord!”
She’s rubbing her eyes with her hand,
takes a step further, goes forward:
“How strangely it shines there inside!
I wonder what that can portend.”
But she dares not venture inside;
She looks within, but stays outside.

As she dithers, fixed to the spot,
all the time observing the vault,
her fear is dispelled by the scene;
by curiosity driven,
the woman makes her way onward.
Step by step she keeps moving in,
she is strongly drawn to proceed;
step by step—in the rock within
mere sleepy echoes are aroused.
And as closer the woman comes,
sharper the strange brightness becomes.
The vault is almost at an end;
yet the woman, all bedazzled,
must cover her face with her hand;
unable to look straight ahead.
She sees, what sees she before her?
Who has seen such a thing, ever?
Such beauty, such dazzling light,
in heaven alone it’s so bright!

Here the doors are flung open wide
to a most magnificent hall;
its gilded walls are all gleaming,
rubies cover the whole ceiling,
beneath are columns of crystal.
And on each side beyond the door, 
is laid the finest marble floor—
who could believe what’s happening?—
on that floor two fires are burning;
two blazing fires are burning there;
nothing can dull their fiery glare;
to the left lie hoards of silver,
where flames are shining like the moon,
and to the right much gold treasure,
where constant flames burn like the sun.
The flames are bright, the room’s on fire,
enveloped in pure radiance,
as long as the treasure lies here,
the flames will never disappear,
nothing diminish their brilliance.

The woman stands on the threshold,
stands there, by the light she’s blinded;
she does not dare to raise her eyes,
into the flames she cannot gaze.
On her left arm she holds the child,
with her right arm rubs her left eye,
but when she takes a glance around,
recovering, her spirits rise,
and heaving a very deep sigh,
in her heart she must now ponder:
“Dear God, a poor woman am I,
such poverty and such hunger
in this world I have to suffer,
and here so many treasures lie!
So much silver and so much gold
lies here all hidden underground!
Just a handful from that treasure
would make me rich with so much gold,
make me happy beyond measure
both me and this my little child.”

Now she stands there, waits and ponders,
and senses some greater dangers;
protected by a holy cross,
the bright white flame she approaches.
She moves close, takes some silver coin,
but then she puts it down again;
picks it up once more to inspect
its brightness and to check its weight—
well, will she once more put it down?
No, see how in her lap it glints.
she’s made bolder by this success
“God’s hand is in this here of course,
he’s pointed out the hiding place,
he clearly wants my happiness;
I would be committing a sin
if this offer I were to spurn!”

Thus thinks the woman in her mind,
placing the child upon the ground,
she kneels down, spreads her apron wide,
gathers eagerly from the heap,
places the silver in her lap:
“It’s by God’s hand we gain so much!
It’s he who bids us become rich!”
She gathers, gathers from the heap—
her lap’s full, it’s hard to stand up;
yet she fills her scarf still further,
taken so with hoards of silver!
When she wants to beat her retreat—
ah! What about the little mite?
I can’t carry him with this load.
The little one is two years old;
but to leave this fortune behind
is not a good thing, to my mind
yet both of them can’t be carried.

Lo! mother carries the silver!
The child hankers for its mother:
“Mummy!” he cries—“mummy, mummy!”
clinging on, his hands are tiny.
“Hush, my love, hush, my little son,
Just wait for me, in a jiffy
Mummy will be back here again!”

And off she runs, runs down that hall,
soon the hall is left far behind;
over the stream, then forest bound
the woman hurries, all joyful.
Later, after just a short while,
empty-handed back she hurries;
in sweat, out of breath, she arrives
once more at the vault in the hill.

And now as the wind softly wafts,
from the church is heard in full voice
the choir singing in unison
a hymn to Christ the Lord’s Passion.

Along the hall she must hurry,
“Ha ha, mummy, ha ha, mummy!”
joyfully the child is laughing,
with his tiny hands he’s clapping.

But his mother cannot delay,
she’s running the opposite way
The bright glint of gold she loves best,
finer metal than all the rest
She kneels down, her apron spread broad,
eagerly she gathers the hoard,
places the silver in her lap:
her lap’s full, it’s hard to stand up;
she fills her scarf, she cannot stop.
Oh, her heart is missing a beat,
she’s so delighted, such a treat!

As mother carries all this gold,
by her side runs, trembling, the child,
he is trembling, crying out loud:
“Mummy, mummy, oh, oh, mummy,”
holding on—his hands are tiny.
“Hush, my dear son, hush, hush my son,
wait a moment, we’ll soon be done.”
Then she bends down to calm her child
and she searches amongst the gold;
from her apron two coins she brings,
one coin against the other rings.
“Look son, see what mummy has here!
Chink, chink, can you hear that, my dear?”
He’s still crying, that little boy,
yet her heart pounds, she’s full of joy.

She searches in her lap anew,
to withdraw a fistful of gold,
and give it to her child to hold:
“Look, see what mummy has for you!
Hush, my dear son, hush, hush, dear son:
just listen to that sound, chink chink!
Just wait, just wait here, little son,
quite soon your mummy will come back.
Just play, my love, just have some fun,
stay here a while, my little one.”

At that she runs, runs through the hall,
gives no thought to the child at all;
soon it’s left far behind, that hall,
and soon the stream she approaches
over the stream, uphill prances,
taking her treasure to the woods,
to her cottage she brings the goods. 

“Hey, cottage, old cottage so drear,
soon I’ll be bidding you farewell!”
Why should I in this place now dwell?
I’ll leave these woods, it’s dark round here,
I do not want you any more!
my father’s home that is so poor;
I’ll take my happiness elsewhere,
my dwelling too will be elsewhere!
I’ll depart, this homeland forgo,
a happy journey hence I’ll make,
now I see my happiness grow;
to the city I’ll me betake;
castles and land I will buy me,
and they’ll start calling me madam;
I bid farewell, cottage, to thee,
no longer will you be my home!
No more poor widow must I be,
night and day having woes to bear,
for see, in my lap”—declares she,
while in delight glancing down there—
Oh, not what she wanted to see!
From utter shock she now quite pales,
from utter shock now she trembles;
fit to faint, on the spot she reels.
She sees, ah! what is it she sees?
she can scarcely believe her eyes.
She opens the old rotten door 
to the place where she had before
stored in a chest all the silver.
She lifts up the lid—ah! never!
For goodness sake, oh goodness, no!
why must she suffer this new blow?
There’s nought but stones, the silver’s gone,
next in her scarf and her apron—
oh such a dreadful delusion—
there’s nought but clay, the gold’s all gone!
All her hopes were pure illusion!

For such luck she did not merit,
such blessing did not inherit.

II
Now this loss causes her such grief,
her suffering finds no relief;
the woman’s heartache is extreme,
in terror, she utters a scream,
the cottage shook, so loud she yelled:
“Ah my dear child, ah my dearest!
Dear child, my dearest, dearest child!”
echoed throughout the deep forest.

With a most dreadful foreboding
runs the woman—oh, not running, 
she flies—as though a bird she flies,
through forest and fields her path lies,
to the place where she found false hoards,
to the hilltop where the church stands.

From the church wafts a gentle wind,
what, no singing, never a chord?
No, from the choir there comes no sound
of the Passion of Christ the Lord.

Then as to the vault she drew near,
oh dear, what a sight should appear!
Wild bushes by the roadside grow 
from the church three hundred paces,
and there a great rock she faces!
Well, where’s the hall? Where is it now?
Gone, a rock in the way, that’s all,
as though there’d never been a hall.

Behold the woman’s great alarm;
searching, she calls out in terror, 
round the hillock she starts to roam,
round bushes, deathly her pallor!
In her eyes deep despair shows through,
her lips have turned a deathly blue.
Lo! She runs through those wild bushes
as down the hillside she rushes.
Oh woe, woe! Where has it all gone!
Her body by the bushes torn,
and her feet all pierced by the thorns,
all her efforts are quite in vain,
No longer is there a way in.

The woman’s again in despair,
she’s seized by dreadful agony:
“Oh, who’ll return my child to me!
Oh my child, where are you, oh where?"

“I’m here below, deep underground!”—
comes a tiny voice on the wind—
“No eye can see me, none at all,
no ear can understand my call.

I’m fine here underground, I’m fine,
Though there’s no food, nothing to drink,
on the marble floor I recline,
pure gold lies in my lap, chink, chink!

Night and day pass, they’re both as one,
my tiny eyes don’t sleep a wink;
I enjoy playing here, it’s fun,
chink chink! Can you hear it?—chink chink!”

Yet the woman searches again;
she despairs, for all is in vain,
she casts herself upon the ground,
and she tears the hair from her head,
deathly pale, and covered in blood:

“Ah woe is me! Oh woe, oh woe!
Oh my child, Oh where did you go?
Where shall I find you, my dear child?
My child, my dear child, my dear child!”
Resounds throughout the nearby wood.

III
One day passes, another then,
days become weeks as they go by,
weeks become months next in their turn,
summer’s warmth begins bye and bye.

On the hillside in the beech wood
stands the tiny church with low spire;
every day the bell’s sound is heard
in the grove and hamlet quite near.
Up here, early in the morning,
the little bell’s calling to mass;
at the temple of heaven’s king
bows low a peasant most pious.

Who’s this, does anyone know her,
this woman, her face bowed down low?
No candles on the altar glow,
but she is still kneeling in prayer.
It seems she cannot catch her breath—
her cheeks and lips are pale as death—
oh, how softly she prays as well!
Who is she? I think I can tell.
But now that the mass is finished
the doors of the church are bolted,
among the beech trees she’s espied,
going slowly down the hillside.
Gradually she makes her way
along the path among brushwood,
down to the rock face stern and grey, 
where a great stone juts in the road.
She heaves a sigh, deeply she sighs,
her head in her palms she buries:
“Oh my dear child!”—sadly she cries;
her eyes are filled with floods of tears.

The miserable cottage woman
is always sad, her face is wan,
she’s deep in thought, and so upset,
from break of dawn until sunset,
in her eyes not a spark of light,
she cannot get to sleep at night.
When again she rises at dawn,
leaving her bed, she’s all forlorn,
“Oh my dear child, my dear dear child,
oh woe is me, oh woe is me!
Oh merciful lord, forgive me!”

The summer season is over,
autumn and winter have gone by—
but grief in her heart still dogs her,
those tearful eyes are never dry.
Though the sun is high in the sky,
warming the land round here for miles,
it warms not her lips in sweet smiles;
the widow does not cease to cry.

IV
Now hark! Up among the beeches,
coming from the little low spire,
the church bell’s rattling now reaches
the grove and the hamlet quite near.
Up from the hamlet, God praising,
hurries a crowd, wending its way:
the village folk are God-fearing,
and it is Good Friday today.

A gentle spring breeze is wafting,
far and wide it carries God’s word;
in church the hymn they are singing
tells the Passion of Christ the Lord.

Approaching the stream down below,
the forest woman comes nearer.
Why is her gait today so slow?
Ah, the thought of that day grieves her,
her grief weighs ever heavier.
Now she is closer to the rock,
finally, she has arrived back.

What before her eyes is revealed?
Among wild bushes spreading wide
a massive rock stands in the road;
the rock is placed here in the way,
the church three hundred feet away,
above opens up a doorway,
as if this stone and great rock face
belonged for ages in this place.

At this the woman’s so alarmed,
from terror her hair stands on end;
for on her falls with all its weight
her sorrow and her awful guilt.
She’s scared but does not hesitate,
and full of fear, but hope withal,
she dashes in the well-known hall,
that lured her in that rock of late.

And lo, the door is open wide
into the magnificent hall;
its gilded walls are all gleaming,
rubies cover the whole ceiling,
beneath are columns of crystal.
And on each side, beyond the door, 
is laid the finest marble floor;
two blazing fires are burning there;
to the left lie hoards of silver,
where flames are shining like the moon,
and to the right much gold treasure,
where constant flames burn like the sun.

The terrified woman comes near,
she’s full of hope, though racked with fear.
She surveys what she sees around.
Is she drawn to silver and gold?
No, other things are on her mind!
“Ha ha, mummy, ha ha, mummy!”
Behold the child, her wee baby
she’d wept for all year, every day,
with tiny hands, clapping away.

The woman, of course, is breathless,
she is trembling, racked by great qualms,
hurrying in her great distress,
she takes the child into her arms,
to carry him away at once.

Then crash, crash! Oh, oh, such a roar
is heard behind within the rock,
the wind howls, there’s a frightful crack,
the ground is shaking, such clamour—
the vault back there will soon collapse!
“Oh, help me, dear Mother of God!”
cries the woman in her distress,
Glancing behind her, terrified.

But see here! All has changed once more!
All is calm, out of the brushwood
a great rock juts into the road;
all’s as it used to be before,
the entrance cannot now be found.
The hymn singing has just ended
for the Passion of Christ the Lord.

The woman is gasping for air,
trembling all over in her fear,
and, hurrying in great despair,
carries her child away from here,
to her breast she’s holding him tight,
so afraid for the little mite,
out of breath she yet keeps running,
although they’re now far from the rock;
she keeps running, never looks back,
towards her poor woodland dwelling,
across the field; when she arrives,
though still scared, for joy she dances.

O how fervently to her god
the woman shows her gratitude!
See the tears she sheds, such a flood!
Tightly she embraces the child,
all over the boy she kisses.
To her breast she presses him close,
she’s overwhelmed with happiness.

In his lap there’s something shiny.
What was that sound? It is pure gold,
To play with, she gave her child gold 
last year though he was still tiny.
She placed it in his lap, that gold.

For the woman its charm is lost
for it has caused her so much grief,
many many tears it has cost;
but she gives thanks for God’s relief,
embracing her dear little child.
A bitter lesson she has learned,
that gold is worth not much at all;
a child is cherished above all.

V
The little church long since is gone;
no more round here does its bell sound;
and where the beech trees used to stand
there remain rotting roots alone.

Grandads recall things long ago,
much inside the grave now moulders;
yet folk are still yearning to know
those things retold by their elders.

When on frosty nights, at leisure,
young folk together may huddle
it’s an old man’s pleasure to tell
of the widow and her treasure.