Our body, it is the Nye*,
awaiting for its friend
the soft sad tune
into its interior blown,
and like a river of love and rain,
caress the harshness
of our pain.
To your love O Lord
There is no end
And this disguise
Is a blessing in which you send
For us, an invitation to be saved.
And these open arms could not
Plead Thee more
When our great sadness
Knocks at the door
waiting for us to die,
like the dying tune.
And true,
These days are sad
But our patience in you is glad
Awaiting peacefully
And with all good faith
Your Glorious Justice
And your vengeance
Above the tyranny
And evil
Of some of the human race

*The Nye is a traditional Arabic musical instrument, like a long end-blown flute. Shepherds were most well known for playing the Nye.