Es Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch Eck
(Originally published in the December 8, 1982 issue of
The Shopping News)
Der Lohdaag Kummt
Mei Erleeser is en Vergelder
Zu dem Greitz as mir do draage.
Yaahre gehne un losse uns elder;
Endlich gehn zum End die Daage.
Unser Herr sei Lob un Ehr,
Losst ihn doch gepriese sei!
Was mich dinkt: Es is zu schwer!
Macht er leicht un schteht mir bei.
Ich wees as mei Erleeser lebt,
Genunk hot er mir schun gewisse:
Newich Grieg un Schtreit as sich erhebt,
Wo deel von dem schun sei hot misse.
Annerscht is die Schrift net waahr,
Was sei heilich Watt uns saagt.
Doch fehlt’s net an eenre Haar,
Wann ebber do des Greitz recht draagt.
Unser zeidlich Leides nemmt en End,
Wie’s bei unserm Heiland hot.
Er waar gwund in seine Hend;
Nau sitzt er bei unserm Gott.
O Yesus, dir sie Dank davor,
As du mei Helfer warre bischt.
Es is ken annere Lieb so waahr,
As wie die Lieb in Yesus Grischt.
Ich waart uff mei Herr mit Geduld,
Bis ich ihn seh mit Aage.
In allem draagt mei Herr ken Schuld
Von denne besse Daage.
Die Schuld bleibt uff uns allee,
Wann mir uns net bereide,
Un hen nord aa ken Huffnung meh,
Wie all sei Wadde deide.
So halt ich aa do vor meim Gott
Fer mich bereit adder ready mache.
Wann Mensche mir gewwe Schpott,
Des sin nau annere Sache.
Mei Bedes nau is aa fer sie,
As wie en Umwand mache;
So wann die Zeit mol is dahie,
As sie aa kenne lache.
Es Laches is net fer die Zeit,
Wo Mensche nanner nunner renne.
Es is es letscht yuscht fer die Leit,
As do ihre Herr nau kenne.
Un wann der Herr vum Himmel kummt,
Dann gebt’s en Wexel do.
Es is die Bosheit as umkummt,
Wer es Lewe grickt bleibt froh.
Pay Day Will Come
My redeemer is one who rewards
The cross that we bear here.
Years pass and leave us older;
Finally the days come to an end.
Our Lord be praise and honor,
Let him be praised!
That which I think: It is too hard!
He makes easy and he stands by me.
I know that my redeemer lives,
Enough he has already shown me:
In addition to war and hostility that arise,
Some of which had to be.
Otherwise the scriptures would not be true,
Which tell us of his holy word.
Yet not a hair will be missing,
When someone carries his cross aright.
Our suffering in time has an end,
As it did with our saviour.
He was wounded in his hands;
Now he sits with our God.
Oh Jesus, thanks be to you,
That you have become my helper.
There is no other love so true,
As the love in Jesus Christ.
I await my Lord with patience,
Until I see him with my eyes.
My Lord bears no blame
Of all these wicked days.
The blame rests upon us alone,
If we do not prepare ourselves,
And then have no more hope,
As all his words indicate.
So I will continue before my God
To make myself ready.
When men make fun of me,
These are now other matters.
My prayers are also for them,
Who make a change;
So that when the time is here,
That they too can rejoice.
The laughter is not for the time,
When men run each other down.
It is at last only for the folk,
That now know their Lord.
And when the Lord comes from heaven,
Then there’ll be a change here.
It is evil that will cease to be,
He who gets life will be happy.
Der Lohdaag Kummt by Levi F. Zimmerman of Red Run (“Die Rot Kuh”), Brecknock Township, Lancaster County is one of the most beautiful Dutch poems of a religious nature that has been written recently. Levi Zimmerman, who lives at the old mill in Red Run, is now in his 72nd year. In a note to “Die Botschaft” of Lancaster, he wrote: “As these verses continue to come into my mind, I continue to write them that they may be of benefit to myself and to the reader if they are printed,”
In a conversation with Levi, he reported that he went to school at “Druckne” (Fivepointville) with my Uncle Claude Beam, who is a guest at the Denver Nursing Home. Since Uncle Claude is high in his 80s, I’m not sure whether Claude was the teacher, or whether Levi was referring to one of my younger uncles.
We never dreamed fifty years ago when we drove to the old Red Run Mill with our grandfather G. H. Slabach (to have apples made into cider) that this would become the home of a gifted Dutch poet. We hope that from time to time we will be able to share with our Eck readers additional poems from the pen of Levi Zimmerman.
In this column, we wish to bid farewell to Miles W. Fry of Fry’s Mill, a true Dutchman, who passed on to his eternal reward on October 26. Miles Fry, a son of Jacob M. and Margaret Ruth Fry, was the sixth generation born and raised on the family farm. Miles had many friends locally through his many services to the community and was also an internationally known tree expert. Miles will be deeply missed, for his kind will not come along again.
December 8, 1982
as an der Rot Kuh
uff die Welt kumme is