My Prussia is of rare wood,
Not as yet defoliated by worm or storm,
And with noble pride it lifts 
Its victorious head toward the sun.

Thus do you defy many a bolt of lightning,
My fatherland, full of courage and power;
For your treetop is unbroken
And fresh is the living sap of your roots.

Now flutter, flags, [and] shine ye candles,
May Victoria garland your chancel!
A welcome sounds rejoicingly from all hearts
And awe greets the black ribbons of mourning.

Flow, dew of bliss, tear of joy,
It is your own, those of your blood,
They return, your sons,
Steeled in the fervour of valiant deeds.

And may nothing of faint-heartedness, nothing of anxiety,
Not the jealousy and power of evil tongues
Dim our morning of victory
Nor ask how much profit it brought in!

Wherefore shines the star, wherefore blooms the flower?
We are gladdened by the sun-flight of the eagle.
A nation of heroes lives to its own renown,
Right and light are sufficient unto it.