For three years we have been collecting money for a baldachin. But we
Winkelstegers have not yet been able to buy one; we must make it
ourselves.
Old Schwamelfuchs has made a portable canopy from green birch-boughs,
that in celebrating this festival, we may carry the sacred relics out of
the church in a fitting manner.
The procession in the bright sunshine is a festive one. And the people,
finally freed from the hard winter, sing joyful hymns. We rest in the
woods and the priest pronounces the benediction, sending the holy
blessing to all parts of the world.
It is unusual that in the midst of the service a layman should raise his
voice, but old Ruepel is an exception, and this is his Corpus Christi
song:
"Let all the bells ring, let all the birds sing, the Lord cometh forth
from His heavenly gates. In green woods He walks, and upon the fresh
grass, where the young deer doth graze, sweet rest He awaits. His first
mighty word He speaks, and when heard, all the flowers spring up from
the earth where they lie. Again He doth speak with re-echoing sound,
each seed in the valley is wakened thereby. And when the third word He
utters is heard, the thunder is silent, the lightning obeys; with the
touch of His breath deadly hail doth He melt. To Thee, mighty Lord, be
both honour and praise. And with Thy last word all nature is stirred;
the mountains shall tremble, the rocks shall be hurled, the heavens
shall crash and waken the dead, and fire shall descend to destroy all
the world."
The strange old man understands reaching the heart with his words.
Impressed and exalted we return to the church. And the green birch
baldachin with its white poles shall stand over the altar until its
thousand tender leaves are withered.