The winter is ov­er and gone at last;
The days of snow and rain are past.
Over the fields the flow­ers ap­pear;
It is the song-dove’s voice we hear.
The sing­ing of birds, a warb­ling band,
And the Spi­rit voice,
The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land,
The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land.

Refrain

The time it is of the sing­ing,
The sing­ing of birds, a warb­ling band,
And the Spi­rit’s voice,
The voice of the song-dove is heard in our land,
Is heard in our land.

And gone are the plain­tive days of Lent;
The week of the cross of Christ we spent.
Now He giv­eth us joy for woe;
Gather the flow­ers, the first that blow.
The sing­ing of birds, a warb­ling band,
And flow­ers are words,
Are words the faith­ful may un­der­stand,
Are words the faith­ful may un­ders­tand.

Refrain

A se­pul­cher seal­èd, a rock its door;
But win­ter is gone and comes no more.
The seal is brok­en and now are seen
Valleys and woods and gar­dens green.
The sing­ing of birds, a warb­ling band,
’Mid flocks and herds,
The song of all na­ture is heard in our land,
The song of all na­ture is heard in our land.

Refrain

And Christ is the song of ev­ery­thing,
For death is win­ter, and Christ is spring.
Fountains that war­ble in purl­ing words,
Hark, how they echo the song of birds.
The sing­ing of birds, a warb­ling band,
And the pur­ling words,
Of brooks and wa­ters are heard in our land,
Of brooks and wa­ters are heard in our land.

Refrain