The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar

The mother stands at the window, The son lies sick in the bed: "Wilt thou not rise up, Wilhelm, To see the procession?" she said.

"I am so sick, O mother, I cannot hear or see; For thought of my own dead Gretchen The heart is dying in me."

"Rise up, we will to Kevlaar, Take book and bead, and go; And the Mother of God will heal thee, Thy heart that is sick for woe."

On high the banners fluttered, The chanting voices rose, And so from the town of Köln on Rhine The long procession goes.

The mother followed the crowd, And where she led went he; And they both are swelling the chorus: "Praise, Mary, be to thee!"

The Mother of God at Kevlaar To-day wears her best silk gown; To-day she has much to see to, For sick folk from the town.

The sick and maimed are bringing Her offerings where she stands, Of members made in waxwork, And mostly feet and hands;

He who a wax hand offers Is cured if his hand is maim; He who a wax foot offers Gets healed in the foot that's lame.

To Kevlaar went many on crutches, Who now on the tight-rope bound; And many are playing the fiddle Who had not a finger sound.

The mother has taken a candle, And made of the wax a heart "Give this to the Mother of God, That so she may heal thy smart"

Sighing he took the token, Sighing he knelt in his place; The words streamed out of his lips, The tears streamed over his face.

"O thou who art high and blessed, God's Maid without a stain, O thou who art Queen of Heaven, Have pity on my pain!

"I live with my mother together In the town of Köln on Rhine, The town that has hundreds of churches, And many a chapel and shrine.

"And neighbor to us was Gretchen, But she is dead; and now I bring thee, Mary, a waxen heart, My wounded heart heal thou!

"Heal thou my broken heart, And morning and night shall see Me with my whole heart singing: 'Praise, Mary, be to thee!'"

The heart-sick son and his mother In an upper chamber slept, When in there came the Mother of God, And silently she stept.

She bent to the sleeping son, And touched him as she bent; She laid her hand on his stricken heart, Then smiled on him, and went.

The mother beheld in her dream All this, and more, I trow, Then started from her slumb'rous rest — The dogs were howling so.

And there she saw her son, at length Laid out, for he was dead; And over his pallid cheeks there played The morning, rosy red.

The mother folded her hands, And all unwittingly Devoutly knelt, and softly sang: "Praise, Mary, be to thee!"