The birds have a song, joyous they sing
as earth disappears beneath their wings.
Each new morning, I wake to their song,
but what must I do to please my God?

A rose will grow each year in its place,
through winter cold and snow, it waits.
The beauty of spring arises from the fog,
but what must I do to please my God?

The stars guide us in season and time.
Hidden by clouds, still they align,
lighting the night when it seems so long.
But what must I do to please my God.