And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;
And the golden catkins, swing
In the warm air of the Spring—
Sing, little children, sing.
Sing, children, sing,
The lilies white you bring
In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,
And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,
So may we cast our fetters off in God’s eternal Spring;
So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,