Bring flowers to strew His way,
Yea, sing, make holiday;
Bid young lambs leap,
And earth laugh after sleep.
For now He cometh
Winter flies to the north,
Folds wings and cries Amid the bergs and ice.
Yea,
Death, great Death is dead,
And Life reigns in his stead;
Cometh the Athlete New from dead Death's defeat.
Cometh the Wrestler,
But Death he makes no stir,
Utterly spent and done,
And all his kingdom gone.
