O Mortal man and born to death—

Whose time shall soon be gone.

Spoiled blossom in thy bud doth rest,

Whose seed in death wast sown.

 

Thou knowest not thy thoughts of life

Cannot bring forth life's birth.

For every branch with death is rife,

Whose vine is of the earth.

 

And if thy roots be anchored deep in

Adam's dusty realm,

Small wonder then thy soul must weep,

For death is at the helm.

 

With joy therefore, I tell thee true

Of One who conquered death.

Jesus the Christ! King of the Jews!

Of Whom mankind is blessed.

 

Not thoughts of life, but Life Himself

Must bring forth new-life's birth.

And every branch may share His wealth

Whose Vine is beyond worth.

 

And if thy Root of heaven cling

To God in realms eternal;

Small wonder then thy soul must sing

In melodies supernal.

 

O Son of man Re-born through Christ

Whose time is Endlessness.

Thy blossom cannot lose its white,

Whose Seed was raised from death.

 

For as in Adam all must cease

In Christ all live again.

Come, trade unrest for joy and peace;

Thou shalt not lose but gain.