Inspiration Friday: a haunting song by Koos du Plessis

(This post first appeared on 26 August 2011.)

One of the earliest songs I can recall hearing and seeing a music video for, was one of Koos du Plessis’ songs. Titled “Sprokie vir ’n stadskind”, or “Fairy tale for a city child”, it also formed part of various Afrikaans poetry lessons.  Much like his “Kinders van die wind” (Children of the wind), it is a beautiful and haunting piece with multiple layers of meaning. Of course, about twenty years later, the song’s meaning to me has grown and evolved, but I can still remember the whole family watching the bittersweet song on the television. Du Plessis made his own translation of the song – “The neon rainbow” – but I could not find it. So, I made my own translation. It is posted below the Afrikaans text, along with a video where the song is sung by Du Plessis.

Sprokie vir ‘n stadskind

                                                – Koos du Plessis

As die reën van stof en roet verby is,

en die rook verdwyn,

 sal daar in die sterrelose hemel,

’n neonboog verskyn.

En kyk maar goed,

want as jy hom vind,

vertel ek vir jou ’n sprokie, my kind,

van ’n skatkis met ou kettings gebind

aan die neonboog se punt.

Volg hom elke nag oor swart riviere,

 oor kranse van beton.

As jy aanhou stap vir tienduisend ure,

 sal jy dalk daar kom.

Maar hier moet jy jou nimmer laat bind,

want so lui die ou, ou sprokie, my kind,

as jy geluk en vrede wil vind,

soek die neonboog se punt.

Volg hom elke nag oor swart riviere,

kyk nie eenmaal om,

dalk vind jy die land

van blou saffiere

en, dalk, ’n brokkie son.

Fairy tale for a city child

When the rain of dust and soot has passed,

and the smoke disappears,

a neon rainbow will appear

in the starless sky.

And look well,

for if you find it

I’ll tell you a fairy tale, my child,

of a treasure chest bound with old chains

to the end of the neon rainbow.

Follow it every night across black rivers,

over cliffs of concrete.

If you keep on walking

for ten thousand hours

you may get there.

But here you must not let yourself be bound,

for so runs the old, old fairy tale, my child,

if you want to find happiness and peace;

find the end of the neon rainbow.

Follow it every night across black rivers,

do not look around once.

Maybe you’ll find the country

of blue sapphires

and, maybe, a small piece of the sun. 

Have a wonderful weekend!
A Agrai tellarias or s’agrélar silássa.

Inspiration Friday – “The Mewlips” by JRR Tolkien

(This post first appeared on 2 September 2011.)

For this Friday’s inspiration I’ve chosen one of JRR Tolkien’s poems; “The Mewlips”. I first read it in the Tolkien Reader and it forms part of The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. And there is a video where Tolkien reads the poem linked underneath the text of the poem!

Do you have any eerie or scary poems you love? Or perhaps a favourite monster? Have you created you own type of monster, perhaps? (During your worldbuilding, of course, not in your basement using some lightning rods and illegally harvested body parts.)

The Mewlips

The Shadows where the Mewlips dwell
Are dark and wet as ink,
And slow and softly rings their bell,
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare
To knock upon their door,
While down the grinning gargoyles stare
And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river-strand
The drooping willows weep,
And gloomily the gorcrows stand
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
By a dark pool´s borders without wind or tide,
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit
Are deep and dank and cold
With single sickly candle lit;
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
Their feet upon the floor
Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,
As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack
Their feeling fingers creep,
And when they’ve finished, in a sack
Your bones they take to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road,
Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,
And through the wood of hanging trees and gallows-weed,
You go to find the Mewlips - and the Mewlips feed.

Here are some great artist renditions of the Mewlips:

You go to find the Mewlips...

... and the Mewlips feed.

Enjoy your weekend! 

And remember on Monday I'll post some new Airthai-fiction. 

Story building – Behind the scenes

(This post first appeared on 16 November 2011.)

It seems that, as the year hurtles towards the end, my mind also gets more scattered. It may be because it’s the time of year when you’re working with two diaries – and trying to remember which day you’re actually busy with. Or maybe it’s just because winter is long forgotten (here, at least) and the holidays are beckoning. Whatever it is, I’m finding myself working on a couple of short stories simultaneously, even though the themes, worlds and even genres are quite different. The one story that seems to be flowing at the moment is called “Stolen Time” for the time being.

I thought it might be interesting to take a look at the workings behind the stories I’m writing at the moment – or have already written. People often ask me (and most writers or writerly types) “Where do you get your ideas”? The thing is, I rarely know. Most of the time an idea just pops into my head from seemingly nowhere. “Here but for Grace”, another WIP, started when I saw how awful I looked in a dressing room mirror. Another idea gets planted while I’m on the treadmill and staring at the opposite wall – usually a good time for world or story building! This week I’ll focus on the main story I’m busy with at the moment.

WIP – Stolen Time – Behind the scenes

So, where did that story idea come from? “Stolen Time” is a sci-fi short story, set in the not too far future. The light bulb lit up when I heard about someone being sentenced to quite a couple of years in prison. Add some ponderings about time while washing the dishes and voila! A story which has nothing to do with the original people, crime or judge is born…

When the main character takes the blame for a crime someone else committed, he gets thrown into a hopeless world and starts to wonder whether what he did was really worth it. Throw in a bit of freaky technology, a couple of corrupt officials, questions about justice, life and death – and who deserves either of these – I’ve given myself quite a story to write.

Why write it then?

Because, now that I’ve started the story, I need to see how it ends. I need to answer these questions myself, for myself. It’s really as simple as that. The story needs to get out, it needs to be told. By writing a story, I can take different viewpoints (some very unlike my own sometimes), measure each, see how they will work in a certain context and have a jol doing it.

Research can be fun – and disturbing

All went well until I reached about 2,500 words. The main character was established, the world was established enough for the first draft and I had reached one of the main scenes of the story – a death scene. Basically, it is the death of someone whom you might say deserve it. You weren’t supposed to feel very sorry for him when I set out to write it. But, when it came to writing the scene, I found I couldn’t make it a black and white scene. Gray entered and, with it, more conflict (which I guess is a good thing). So, I scribbled some margin notes and continued on, but then I realised I needed to know more about human decomposition timelines than I’ve learned from shows such as Medical Detectives, NCIS and the like.

After some reading I wish I did before having gone through the trouble of making dinner – I did manage to write a decent first draft of the scene. The biggest problem with this scene will be balance – the last thing I want is a gore-fest slapped in the middle of the story. There’s a certain amount of gore which I’m comfortable with writing (or even reading), but there is also the right amount of gore for a specific story. If you’re not setting out to do a “lone hitchhiker with a love of chainsaws and the colour red” story, there’s really no need to go all-out with the gore factor. I’m quite happy to leave the details to the reader’s imagination. After all, when you write about decapitated human heads being catapulted over a city wall, you don’t need to write about every blood spatter[1]. This is probably one of the scenes I’ll have to edit or rewrite the most once I’m done with the draft.

All in all, I had a good writing night – about 800 words after all the research. Tonight, I’ll tackle the next two (luckily) corpse-free scenes. And maybe even enjoy dinner tonight!

---

[1] If you’re going WHAT! o.0 at this moment; this happens in Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. And no, every speck of blood isn’t described. 

Ageless Words: The Battle of Stamford Bridge and Two Poems

(This post first appeared on 15 July 2011.)

This post follows the AWF post about Anglo-Saxon poetry about the Battle of Maldon.

The Battle of Stamford Bridge

The date is 25 September 1066. The place is Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire. On this day Saxons and Vikings will meet in battle. Swords will clash. Shields will break. And poetry will be composed.

(The Old Norse text can be found below the English translation.)

Men say that King Harald recited this verse:

“We went forth in the ranks,

byrnie-less, with blue edges;

helmets shine, I have not mine,

my coat lies on the ship below.”

His byrnie was called Emma; it went all the way down to the middle of his leg, and was so strong that no weapon had any effect on it. Then King Harald said, 'That was poorly composed, so I shall now devise another better verse', and then recited this:

“We do not creep in battle,

before the clashing of weapons,

behind the curve of the shield –

so commanded by the lady of the hawk’s land, true of speech;

the lady bade me, where meet

skulls and the ice of battle,

long ago to carry on high

the helmet’s seat into the clash of metal.”

Now the Angles give the Norsemen a charge and a harsh reception comes in return, and so the long spears were set and it hit hard against the horses.

And the Old Norse:

Þet sæghia menn, at Haraldr konongr kvǽðe vísu þessa:

"Fram gengom vér í fylkingu,
        bryniulausir meðr blár æggiar;
        hialmar skína, hæfkaðek mína;
        nú liggr scrúð várt at scipum niðri."

Emma hét brynia hans; hon tóc ofan í mitt bæin hanum, oc svá stærk at æcki festi vápn á henne. Þá mǽlti Haraldr konongr, "Þetta er illa ort, oc scal gæra nú aðra vísu bætri." oc cvað þá þetta:

"Kriúpum vér firir vópna
        (valtæigs) brökon æighi
        (svá bauð Hilldr) at hialdri
        (haldorð) í bugh skialdar;
        hátt bað mec, þer's mœtozt,
        mennskurð bera forðom,
        lackar ís oc höusar,
        hialmstal í gný malma."

Nú væita Ænglar Norðmönnum áreið oc varð á mót viðrtaca hörð, oc svá váro sættar kæsiurnar oc koms þet mest viðr hestana.

This translation is courtesy of www.utexas.edu – Lessons in Old Norse. For more information about the Battle of Stamford Bridge, you can visithttp://www.britainexpress.com/History/battles/stamford-bridge.htm

Inspiration Friday – ‘Twas almost the night before Christmas…

With Christmas around the corner (and it looks like it's going to be a sweltering one), I thought I'd add the Chris Chameleon's "Kersfees in Afrika" (Christmas in Africa) video to this post, along with two of my favourite carols - "O, Holy Night" and "What Child is This?". 

For my other Christmas-themed posts, click here for Summer Christmas, here for Cookies and Milk, a flash piece and here for why books make the best gifts.

May you all have a blessed weekend and a blessed Christmas! 

Mag julle almal 'n geseënde naweek en 'n geseënde Kersfees hê!

Worldbuilding Wednesday: Festivals, Fasts and Feasts

With the year galloping towards its end and various celebrations being held all over the world, I decided to do a worldbuilding post about some of Airthai’s festivals, focusing on those relating to the Sundering.

For a brilliant podcast about holidays in fiction – and especially in fictional worlds, I highly recommend listening to this one by the team ofWriting Excuses.

With the Sundering being such a big part of the history of Airthai, there are various festivals across the lands of Airthai which in some way commemorate this event.

The most wide-spread festivals or days which are commemorated at the time at which the Sundering happened, which touched everyone on Airthai. The Coastal Peoples have, for the most part, the most or the longest festivals that has to do with the Sundering. Different days are added or removed depending on what had happened during the Sundering in that specific part of the world. 

Festivals of the Sundering in the Eastern Lands

In the Eastern Lands some of the biggest festivals are held by the Saerímavolk and their neighbours and are set around the events of the Sundering and the events thereafter. The Saerímavolk holds the Festival of the Sundering at the end of summer every year. This festival incorporates the following: the Day of Sundering, the Night of Fire, the Week of the Lost and the Day of Thanks.

The Feast of the Sundering

The Feast of the Sundering is made up of four different holidays, starting with the Day of Sundering. The fourth month of the year, when the plants slowly recede and lose their leaves, is a month which includes a week of fasting - known as The Week of the Lost as the loss of the Sundered Lands to the Shadow is remembered. The month ends with a great feast on the Day of Thanks to give thanks that the Continent was saved through the Sundering. 

The Day of Sundering

The Day of Sundering is commemorated in the third month of the year, at the end of summer, on the day before the full moon. On this day a fest is eaten and the beaches are readied for the Night of Fire.  

The Night of Fire

The Night of Fire was the night on which the Flotaferan attacked the coast of the Eastern Lands after the Sundering. The Night of Fire is commemorated every year at the first new moon after The Day of Sundering, at the end of summer. This night is commemorated by the lighting of bonfires on the beaches and has come to include mock battles and feasting, where the first nights were held in austerity, recounting the tales of the Sundering around fires on the beaches over a simple meal. 

The Week of the Lost

The Week of the Lost is held during the week after the Night of Fire. During this week people fast to commemorate the loss of Sundered Lands as well as those who still live there.

Day of Thanks

The Day of Thanks is the last day of the Festival of the Sundering, where thanks are given that the Continent was spared the Shadow of the Sundered Lands. On this day the week-long fast is broken and a feast is held to end the Feast of the Sundering. 

The Lands of Airthai before the Sundering

The Continent and the Sundered Lands after the Sundering

Worldbuilding Wednesday – Cities of promises and riches

Worldbuilding Wednesday & Behind the Story

In the next part of The Price of Freedom (to be posted next Monday), I return to one of the parts of Airthai I have only written one short piece about (that has seen the light of the blog). One of the flash pieces I wrote for NaShoStoMo earlier in the year, entitled “The City of Promise”, was set on route to one of the larger and richer cities of the Southern Lands – Marglóthborg.

City of Promise

While this piece started out with the quite cliché ‘young-man-with-father’s-sword-setting-out-to-big-city’, I wanted it specifically not to be epic or have the young man’s life influence a whole kingdom. He wasn’t going to overthrow an evil empire, dark lord or even gather great riches. He was simply a young man with an heirloom setting out to find work in a large city so that he could send money home to his family. I doubt there are many families on the whole of the earth that doesn’t have this story in some form or another in their family. His choice to become a guard for one of the rich families did mean, however, that he was able to send more money home than he would have if he had gone to work in the mines. I specifically wanted to write a fantasy piece where the hero of the story is simply a hero to his family because he could help care for them. Yet, he also makes a choice to go against his father’s wishes and becomes someone who earns his living with a sword.

Worldbuilding the Dry Bay – Marglóthborg and Black Harbour

Northwest of the lands of the Seafolk, after the Dragon Cliffs and Dhôr Mountains, lies a large, semi-desert bay area called Dry Bay. The land here is rich in minerals and metals and are known for its various kinds of mines as well as the extravagant lifestyle of the cities’ rich.

There are different kinds of mines in the parts situated around the Dry Bay. There are salt mines – some of the richest in Airthai and the salt of which is said to have health properties as well and are very costly and traded throughout the Continent. The most important mines, however, are those where dragon tears are mined – one of only two places in the whole of Airthai where this is done. The second is in Naeddre, where the tears of Skáhag is mined on a much smaller scale[1] and traded with the Northern Lands (the only time dragon tears have been mined where the name of the dragon is known). The dragon tears of Marglóthborg, however, have been laid down by generations of dragons before and right after the Great Sundering.

Black Harbour is named after the black rocks and sand found in the area – a reference of which is also made in “The City of Promise”. This is the most southerly part of the western coast of Airthai where this black ground and rocks are found and the harbour here is also the most southerly one from where ships can sail in relative safety around the Dragon Cliffs (accompanied by one of the southern dragons) to the harbour at Diuzisborg.

To read “The City of Promise”, click here.

A Map of Part of the Southern Lands

The Lands of Airthai after the Great Sundering

---

[1] No pun intended.

A Christmas Story: Cookies and Milk

Cookies and milk

“Do you think I’ve lost some weight?” Nick asked, looking at himself in the hallway mirror. The green carpet beneath his feet was scuffed and threadbare in places. It was much, much older than the new, box-like house in which it now lay. “I’ve tried to cut down on sugar and carbs, you know. Only fat free milk as well.”

“Spot of brandy?” Bob, the younger of the two asked as he made his way from the kitchen to the spare-bedroom-study, past the living room where a boot was thrown through the glass of the TV. He didn’t ask.

“Why not? Boeing's long gone.”

They sat down in identical leather chairs in front of a fake fireplace with fake logs and flames. A small nativity scene stood on a shelf. Bob looked at it and smiled. “I’m glad to see you still have it.”

“Of course, not another in the world that can craft wood like that. And the paint? Perfect. Don’t see much of them anymore.”

The younger blushed. Though wrinkled, his face and eyes still held youth pent up inside. “Made another sheep,” he said and took a small, white, wooden sheep from his pocket. “You need a flock. The shepherds can’t just watch three sheep. And you need a few more angels. I’ll make them next year.”

“Thank you.” The old man placed it reverentially on the mantle with the others.

They sat in silence sipping their drinks.

“How’s life treating you?” Bob asked.

“As it does all old people, Bob,” the man said. “They don’t want you around anymore. No more letters. Small house. Lots of people. The neighbour’s kid cursed at me yesterday for moving too slow and called me fat.” He sighed. “Most are like that now. I prefer to stay here with my memories and thoughts.”

A dull thumping sounded from the house next door.

“And my own music. Not this noise.”

“The TV?”

“They had Santa selling some awful pre-cooked soya turkey dinner. Then he strutted around drunk as sailor on leave, in a nightclub, with what looked like teenagers. I couldn’t find the remote, so I chucked the nearest thing. Let’s just say I’ve not felt that good in years. Didn’t like the damn TV anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I made a toy for my nephew. Wind up train. Built the whole thing by hand. Painted it. Made the tracks – a replica of the track outside town. Trees, people, buildings, you name it.”

“And?”

“He walked into the garage while I was busy. He laughed.” He took a swallow of brandy. “Later he and his friends set it alight. Apparently they wanted to see if painted wood burns faster than unpainted wood.”

“Did it?”

“The varnish wasn’t dry yet. It was like throwing a butt on dry grass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Should’ve kept it in my room. The paint fumes just got too much.”

The older man grinned. “Ventilation’s the key, hey.”

Someone hammered on the front door.

The men looked at their watches. “Not four yet, he can wait.”

“I’m not getting in the car if he’s drunk.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, of course he’s drunk the useless –“

“O, say it. I’m thinking it too.”

“The sheep’s nice. I’m glad you brought it. Does look more real with more sheep. The donkey’s still my favourite, though. That hanging ear… the spitting image of old Daisy.”

“You know, my nephew asked me what the sheep was for,” he said.

“And?”

“I said for a nativity scene.”

“And?”

“He didn’t know what it was.”

“His parents?”

“Quite useless, the both of them.”

The knock on the door sounded again, loader this time.

“Not yet four. Anyway, we’re deaf old men.”

“Some cookies? Their home made.”

“Never say no to cookies and milk. Best time of the year for them as well.”

“And some music? We’ll have to put it loud if we want to hear it, what with being deaf and all…”

The eldest of the two turned the stereo on and a carol started to play.

The other went to the fridge to get the milk. It was filled with drinks and jelly shots.

“And this?”

“The neighbours didn’t have enough room in their house for all their liquor. They probably need it for the dry Christmas their having.” Neither of them laughed.

Bob ate another of the Pfefferneuse and took a gulp of milk while the hammering at the door continued. They turned the stereo up.

Come, they told me

“Funny how it’s suddenly two days of binge drinking. Or until the day after New Year’s if their livers last.”

Our finest gifts we bring

“And now all everyone’s wants is video games and expensive gadgets. Nobody even wishes anymore. Everything’s a have-to-have. Do you remember the gifts we made?”

So to honour Him

“And the music. And the lights. The joy of the children’s faces? Now their all greedy little buggers.”

I have no gift to bring

“And that feeling of peace when you walk into the church? That could calm your heart for another year, knowing you’re safe.”

Shall I play for you

“And now?” He didn’t have to say anything. They knew.

There was knocking again. “I’m leaving if you don’t come out now!”

Bob took another two Pfefferneuse and dipped them in the milk.

The ox and lamb kept time

“Do you think they’ll ever find the houses, Nick?”

I played my drum for Him

“No. Never. We made sure of that. Nobody will look there anyway. The whole story was a good idea after all, especially the bit about the elves.”

I played my best for Him

“Humph! Stupid Google Earth, it’s the North Pole! Who goes and searches the North Pole!”

Then He smiled at me

“More milk? There’s another tin Pfefferneuse here somewhere.”

Father Christmas

Die Afrikaanse vertaling kan gevind word by: http://www.woes.co.za/bydrae/kortverhaal/koekies-en-melk 

Rambling Wednesday: The Gift That Is Easy To Wrap

(Or, Why Books Make Good Gifts)

When you are obsessed with books, it is at once very difficult and very easy to buy someone a gift. For someone like me, who is not too imaginative when searching for gifts, books are a natural choice. I find it near impossible to buy someone that doesn’t read a gift. See, for me things like books, chocolates and bubble baths are connected. When I receive a book, I am ecstatic. When I receive chocolate I am ecstatic because I can eat it – while reading. Or I can have a lovely rose/lavender scented bath – while reading. Take reading out of the equation and I am left with other hobbies. But something like paint or a DIY-kit is much more difficult to choose or buy for someone else. For instance – I buy only my own quilling paper, because I am very picky on the type of paper I use. I despise plastic crochet hooks. All paper crafting materials must be acid-free… see, very picky. And what if their hobby is fly fishing? I know nothing about fishing! How am I supposed to buy something fly-fishingy which they will actually use?

Seven reasons why books make good gifts:

1. They are easy to wrap.
2. You get books on any subject – even books on books. So you’re bound to find something.
3. They are easy to wrap. Even I can wrap a book without using a whole roll of sticky tape.
4. They are easy to carry around once wrapped.
5. It’s a lot easier to get a book to suit someone’s personality than choosing between Rose (too girly?), Lavender (am I saying she’s old?), Strange Spicy Scent (too masculine?) and Flower Smell That Will Give You Instant Migraine (stagger out of shop into pharmacy to get pain killers).
6. Did I mention they are easy to wrap? And easy to tie ribbon around.
7. Of course, if you’re buying them an ebook you don’t even have to wrap it. Or carry it somewhere. But I still like writing something inside books I give to people.

 Of course, if you can’t find that elusive book, written by that elusive author and printed by that elusive, independent press that your family member/friend simply has to have… go on, buy a gift card.

(An earlier version of this post was posted last year on Ramblings of a Lone Bibliophile.)

A Summer Christmas

Before you know it, the year is almost at its end. Summer is in full swing, the sale of ice and fans are booming and everyone is getting into a festive spirit. While I love traditional carols and many modern Christmas songs, it is sometimes nice to have songs that doesn’t sing about snow or how cold it is. One of my favourite Christmas songs is called “Somerkersfees” or “Summer Christmas”. It also brings back so many good memories of Christmas and the family or church singing it together. The song was written in 1971 and the lyrics of the first two verses and music was written by Koos du Plessis, while the third verse was added by Jannie du Toit. It has been included as song 358 in the Liedboek van die Kerk with the title “Welkom, o stille nag van vrede”.

Below are a translation of the lyrics along with the original and a video of the song.

Voor mens jou oë uitvee is die jaar amper verby. Somer is in volle gang, die verkope van ys en waaiers is aan die styg en almal kom in die gees van die seisoen. Alhoewel ek baie hou van tradisionele Kersliedere en baie moderne Kersfees-liedjies, is dit partykeer lekker om liedjies te hoor wat nie sing oor sneeu of hoe koud dit is nie. Een van my gunsteling Kersliedere is “Somerkersfees” – hier vertaal as “Summer Christmas”. Dit bring ook soveel goeie herinneringe terug van Kersfees en die familie of kerk wat dit saam sing. Die lied is in 1971 geskryf en lirieke van die eerste twee verse en die musiek is deur Koos du Plessis geskryf, terwyl die derde vers deur Jannie du Toit geskryf is. Dit is as lied 358 in die Liedboekvan die Kerk opgeneem met die titel “Welkom, o stille nag van vrede”.

Hieronder is ’n vertaling van die lirieke, saam met die oorspronklike teks en ’n video van die liedjie.

Summer Christmas

Welcome o silent night of peace

beneath the southern cross,

while voices from the old past

murmur across the starry heaven

Christmas comes, Christmas comes –

give the glory to God.

Gift to us a bright summer Christmas

in this country, o Lord.

Do you hear how softly the bells chime

in language centuries old.

Look, even the silence of the night

tells the old tale.

Christmas comes, Christmas comes –

give the glory to God.

Gift to us a bright summer Christmas

in this country, o Lord.

Do you also now feel his warm love

when we commemorate this day.

When He gave His Son to us –

our biggest Christmas gift.

Christ comes, Christ comes –

give glory to God.

Gift to us a bright summer Christmas

in this country, o Lord.

Somerkersfees/ Welkom, o stille nag van vrede[1]

Welkom, o stille nag van vrede, 
onder die suiderkruis, 
wyl stemme uit die ou verlede 
oor sterrehemel ruis. 

Kersfees kom, Kersfees kom – 
gee aan God die eer. 
Skenk ons ‘n helder Somerkersfees 
in hierdie land, o Heer.

Hoor jy hoe sag die  klokke beier 
In eeue-oue taal. 
Kyk, selfs die nagtelike swye 
vertel die ou verhaal. 

Kersfees kom, Kersfees kom – 
gee aan God die eer. 
Skenk ons ‘n helder Somerkersfees 
in hierdie land, o Heer. 

Voel jy ook nou sy warm liefde 
As ons die dag gedenk, 
Toe Hy sy Seun aan ons gegee het – 
Ons grootste kersgeskenk. 

Christus kom, Christus kom – 
gee aan God die eer. 
Skenk ons ‘n helder Somerkersfees 
in hierdie land, o Heer. 

---

[1] Text from the new edition of the Liedboek van die Kerk (2001) by NG-Kerk Uitgewers./Teks uit die nuwe uitgawe van die Liedboek van die Kerk (2001) deur NG-Kerk Uitgewers.