I At the window stood the mother, The son lay in bed. "Won't you stand up, William To see the procession?" "I am so ill, O mother, That I see and hear nothing; I think of dead Gretchen, And my heart aches." "Stand up, we will go to Kevlaar, Take the Book and the rosary; The Mother of God will heal Your broken heart completely." The church banners flutter, There is singing in Church tone; To Cologne upon the Rhine, There goes the procession. The mother follows the crowd, The son, led by her, Both sing in chorus: Praise be to you, Mary! II The Mother of God in Kevlaar Wearing today her best dress; Today she has much to do, Many sick people are coming. The sick people Present as offerings Limbs formed of wax Many waxen hands and feet And whomever offers a waxen hand, The wound on his hand is healed; And whomever offers a waxen foot, His foot will be well. Many have come to Kevlaar on crutches, Who now dance upon a rope, Even more now play the viola, Who had not one good finger. The mother took a wax candle, And shaped it into a heart. "Take this to the Mother of God, Then she'll heal your pain." With a sigh the son took the waxen heart, With a sigh, to the saint's image; A tear streamed from his eye The words streamed from his heart: "Your most blessed one, Your immaculate maiden of the Lord, Your Queen of heaven, I lament to you of my pain! I lived with my mother In the city of Cologne, The city that has many hundreds Of chapels and churches. And Gretchen lived nearby, Who is now dead - Mary, I bring you a waxen heart, I beg you heal my wounded heart. Please heal my broken heart, I will also, late and early, Fervently pray and sing, Praise be to you, Mary!" III The sick son and his mother, Were sleeping in the bed chamber; Thereupon came the Mother of God Most softly crept within. She bent over the sick boy And lay her hand Very gently upon his heart, Smiled tenderly and vanished. The mother saw it all in a dream And yet saw more; She awoke from slumber, The dogs were baying so loudly. There lay outstretched Her son, and he was dead; It played upon his pale cheeks The red light of dawn. The mother joined her hands, She didn't know how she was; With devotion she lowly sang: Praise be to you, Mary!