When the snow falls against the window,

The evening bell rings long,

The table is prepared for many,

And the house is well cultivated.

Some in their wanderings

Come to the gate on dark paths.

The tree of grace blooms golden

From the earth’s cool sap.

Wanderer, step silently inside;

Pain has petrified the threshold.

There in pure radiance

Bread and wine glow on the table.