There's still a twilight of the night. The world's so young in its proceeding, That countless stars in sky abide, And each one, like the day, is bright, And if the Earth contained that might, She'd sleep through Easter in delight, Under the Psalter reading.
There's still a twilight of the night. It's far too early; it appears, That fields eternally subside, Right from crossroad to the side, And 'til the sunrise and the light, There is a thousand years.
The Mother Earth, of clothes deprived, Has nothing else to wear, To strikes the church bell through night Or echo choirs in the air.
And from the Maundy Thursday night Right 'til the Easter Eve, The water bores the coastal side And whirlpools heave.
The forest, in exposed expanse, To celebrate Christ's Holy times, As though in prayer, calmly stands, In gathered stems and trunks of pines.
And in the city, in one place, As if a mob commenced, The naked trees sincerely gaze Upon the Church's fence.
Their eyes are fully filled with rage. And their concern is heard. The gardens slowly leave their cage, The Earth shakes wildly in its range, They're burying the Lord.
A light is seen that dimly glows, Black kerchiefs and the candle rows, By weeping eyes-- And suddenly, there's a procession, With holy shroud of the Christ And every birch, with a concession, Along the entrance subsides.
They walk around the royal square, Along the sidewalk's edge. Into the vestibule with care, They bring the spring and springtime flair, A scent of Eucharist in the air And vernal rage.
And March is tossing snow around To beggars gathered on Church ground, As though a person just walked out, Opened the shrine, took what he found And gave it all away.
The singing lasts throughout the night, Those who have wept enough, they lastly, Calmly and gently stroll outside, Onto the land under the light, To read the Psalter or Apostles.
But after midnight, all will quiet, Hearing the vernal lecture, That if we wait just for a while, We'll cast His death into exile With holy resurrection.