On Sunday night hear me,
Crying out to the heart with pain
Of a sluggish flame
That stings with a bitter fate.

Do not hurry to be offended.
Flutter the wing of a battered bird,
And look into the sky with eternity,
How faces glitter in the clouds.

Those faces are not of people at all,
Not of those one might pray to.
They are the faces of Heavenly angels,
Capable of being astonished by you.

They are able to watch over,
Giving hope, inspiration,
And in the bitter whirlpool wish
To console the wounded heart.

They will comfort, will help,
Embracing with their mighty wing.
And in unison they will pronounce
Good tidings of the daily life:

“You are not alone in this world,
As God is one with the human soul,
You are the master in this world
Of the life you call fate.”