The Bird Song

The winter is ov­er and gone at last;

The days of snow and rain are past.

Over the fields the flow­ers ap­pear;

It is the song-dove’s voice we hear.

The sing­ing of birds

a warb­ling band

And the Spir­it voice

The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land

The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land.

The time it is of the sing­ing

The sing­ing of birds

a warb­ling band

And the Spir­it’s voice

The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land

Is heard in our land.

And gone are the plain­tive days of Lent;

The week of the cross of Christ we spent.

Now He giv­eth us joy for woe;

Gather the flow­ers

the first that blow.

The sing­ing of birds

a warb­ling band

And flow­ers are words

Are words the faith­ful may un­der­stand

Are words the faith­ful may un­ders­tand.

A se­pul­cher seal­èd

a rock its door;

But win­ter is gone and comes no more.

The seal is brok­en and now are seen

Valleys and woods and gar­dens green.

The sing­ing of birds

a warb­ling band

’Mid flocks and herds

The song of all na­ture is heard in our land

The song of all na­ture is heard in our land.

And Christ is the song of ev­ery­thing

For death is win­ter

and Christ is spring.

Fountains that war­ble in purl­ing words

Hark

how they echo the song of birds.

The sing­ing of birds

a warb­ling band

And the pur­ling words

Of brooks and wa­ters are heard in our land

Of brooks and wa­ters are heard in our land.