The Christ-child had a garden,
And many roses He planted therein;
He had three times a day watered them,
In order to weave for Himself a garland later on.
When those roses were in full bloom,
He called the Hebrew children ;
They plucked off every flower,
And the whole garden was devastated.
— "How wilt Thou weave a garland for Thyself?
In Thy garden there are no more roses!"
— "You forgot that the thorns
Remained for Me," said Christ.
And from the thorns they wove
A spiny garland for Him —
And drops of blood, instead of roses,
Adorned His brow.
Был у Христа-младенца сад,
И много роз взрастил он в нем;
Он трижды в день их поливал,
Чтоб сплесть венок себе потом.
Когда же розы расцвели,
Детей еврейских со́звал он;
Они сорвали по цветку,
И сад был весь опустошен.
«Как ты сплетешь теперь венок?
В твоем саду нет больше роз!"
— «Вы позабыли, что шипы
Остались мне», — сказал Христос.
И из шипов они сплели
Венок колючий для него,
И капли крови вместо роз
Чело украсили его.
«One nail was missing. / Who is to blame? / The shoe got loose, / And the horse got lame. The horse was limping, / The commander is dead. / Cavalry is defeated, / Enemies rush ahead. Killing men and women / Enter they the city... / For lack of one nail. / What ...»
«For want of a nail the shoe was lost, / For want of a shoe the horse was lost, / For want of a horse the rider was lost, / For want of a rider the battle was lost, / For want of a battle the kingdom was lost, / And all for the want of horseshoe nail.»
«On a holiday eve, a mistress toiled / At the tomorrow's fare / She baked, and fried, and stewed, and boiled. / Etcetera... Don't care. / / The weather yet was pretty bad, / With a cold wind; therefore, / The old man from his corner said, / "Old woman, close the door". / / "Next...»
«Thought, yet more thought! Poor artist of the word, / thought’s priest! For you there can be no forgetting; / it’s all here, here are people and the world / and death and life and truth without a veil. / Ah! Chisel, cello, brush, happy the man / drawn to you by his senses, going no fur...»