The sick folk with them are bringing,
As offerings fitting and meet,
Strange limbs of wax all fashion’d,
Yes, waxen hands and feet.
And he who a wax hand offers,
Finds cured in his hand the wound,
And he who a wax foot proffers,
Straight finds his foot grow sound.
To Kevlaar went many on crutches
Who now on the tight rope skip,
And many a palsied finger
O’er the viol doth merrily trip.
The mother took a waxlight,
And out of it fashion’d a heart:
“My son, take that to God’s mother,
“And she will cure thy smart.”
The son took sighing the wax-heart,
Went with sighs to the shrine so blest,
The tears burst forth from his eyelids,
The words burst forth from his breast:
“Thou highly-favour’d blest one!
“Thou pure and godlike maid!
“Thou mighty queen of heaven,
“To thee my woes be display’d!
“I with my mother was dwelling
“In yonder town of Cologne,
“The town that many a hundred
“Fair churches and chapels doth own.
“And near us there dwelt my Gretchen,
“Who, alas! is dead to-day;
“O, Mary, I bring thee a wax-heart,
“My heart’s wounds cure, I pray.
“My sick heart cure, O cure thou,
“And early and late my vow
“I’ll pay, and sing with devotion:
“‘O Mary, blessed be thou!’”