Robin, why do you linger here when all your friends have flown?
What cold enchantment holds you fast 
and turns your wings to stone?

Who made your rocky nest amid the pillars tall and grey?
The winter wind is blowing now – you should be far away!

What clever sculptor fashioned you and set you near the sky,
So twisting children, whispering, point up as they pass by? 

(the bird replies) 
My master was a carpenter; He built a church so great
It stretches all around the world, yet dwells within a heart.

His hands are hardened by His work: they show the marks of love.
His head a gnarled coronet wears; his spirit is a dove.

My Master, born in poverty, knew sorrow, grief and loss.
He healed the sick with selfless love, but died upon a cross.

When all the city streets are free of hunger, fear and pain
my Master shall return with joy, and I shall fly again.

Here, then, I will stay, and sing my silent song of love
until my Master comes again and turns this stone to blood.