Holy week

Oh week, witness of the holy passion!

You sound so serious in the joy of this spring,

into the renewed rays of the sun you spread

the shadow of the cross over the illuminated earth

and silently lay down your veil;

meanwhile spring is allowed to continue its bursting forth,

the violet gives off its scent under the blossoming trees

and all the birds sing songs of jubilation.

Oh be quiet, you birds on the green meadows!

The muffled bells resound,

the angels are singing soft funeral songs:

be still you birds up in the blue sky!

You violets, do not adorn any hair today!

My pious child is picking you for a dark wreath,

you will go with her to the house of the mother of God

where you will wither on the Lord's altar.

Oh there, drunk with mournful melodies,

and sweetly sprinkled with the heavy scent of incense,

she is seeking her bridegroom in the grave vaults,

and love, and spring, everything is submerged!