Rain is falling somewhere, it is gentle, it is sweet.
A savory odor fills the air of baked and crackled wheat.
There is a sound of ringing bells which ever can be heard,
And in the softness of this place my ears keep at the word.
When every path is shattered, and war and rampage meet
I know it is begining, and we stand up on our feet.
The wounded hordes returning, with bandage round their heads,
The garments they are wearing are tattered into threads.
Lava spills down mountains: golden river swift,
In sudden changes are we ready to make a drastic shift?
As my feet plodded on along the way, I heard the mower say:
“This grass that I am shearing will all come back one day.”
And on the ground lay bleeding a thousand blades of shale,
Their torment not yet ended; their damage, neither pale.
‘What matters grass?’ Thought I, until in an instant saw:
I am grass myself, and the mower’s shear: the Law.
And so I started fleeing, as the Law pursued me so,
But from this there’s no escaping, no matter where you go.
Somewhere rain is falling, in gentle, wondrous drop;
My roots begin to writhe and crawl, please make the terror stop!
Shall I stand upon the mountain, and thumb my nose at God?
The mower, still is coming… but behold: a shapherd’s rod!
And so the mower cuts me, and to my knees I fall,
Vanquished grass am I, and I and I matter not at all.
And yet… I do… for the blade, it cares for none,
But somewhere rain is falling, and there, too, shines the sun.
When, like grass I’m cut I come back yet again,
Let us not be burned though: repent of all your sin.