The last songs of the people are dying away behind us; a few torches here and there just glimmer through the gloom!
Ha! under those hoary trees drooping with the night dew, and through this curdling, whitening vapor, see you not the giant shadow of the dead Past? Hark! hear you not that wailing chant?
The Baptized. Everything is shrouded in the thickening mist; at every step we descend, deeper, deeper!
Chorus of Wood Spirits. Let us weep for Christ, the persecuted, martyred Jesus!
Where is our God; where is His church?
The Man. Unsheathe the sword—to arms! to arms!
I will restore Him to you; upon thousands and thousands of crosses will I crucify His enemies!
Chorus of Spirits. We kept guard by day and night around the altar and the holy graves; upon untiring wings we bore the matin chime and vesper bell to the ear of the believer; our voices floated on the organ's peal! In the glitter of the stained and rainbow panes, the shadows of the vaulted domes, the light of the holy chalice, the blessed consecration of the Body of our Lord—was our whole life centred!
Woe! woe! what will become of us?
The Man. It is growing lighter; their dim forms fade and melt into the red of morn!