Es gänezt der Ābgrund, es brausen die Inden,
Es krachen die Leiters vun Schiff, un' es trāgt,
Es hulet der Sturem, es pfeifen die Winden,
Un' Ēiner hāt endlich mit Trähren gesāgt:
"Der schwarzer Bessōlem is' nit unser Mutter,
Nit is' unser Wiegel der Keewer gewe'n;—
Es hāt uns geboren a Malach a guter,
A teuere Mutter, mit Liebe varsehn.
"Who are you, wretched ones, tell me, that you can suppress the most terrible sufferings, that you have no sighs and no tears even at the awful gates of Death?
"Say, have, indeed, graves brought you forth? Do you leave behind you no parents, no wife, no child who will lament you when you are lost here in the deep and dreadful abyss?
"How? Have you no one to be sorry for you, to long for you, or shed a tear, when the wet cemetery will cover you, when you will no more return to this earth?
"How? Have you no fatherland, no country, no home where to go to, no friendly house, that you bear such a contempt for life, and are waiting for the dark grave?
"Have you no one in heaven above to whom to cry when you are in trouble? Have you no nation, have you no faith? Miserable ones, what is your fate?"
The abyss yawns, the waves bellow, the shipladders crack, the storm rages madly, the winds whistle,—and finally one says in tears:
"The black cemetery is not our mother, the grave has not been our cradle; a good angel has borne us, a dear mother, endowed with love.