S'n amour, tchi qui l'saithait? - My song is love unknown

audgo en mp3 - S'n amour, tchi qui l'saithait? - mp3 download

Nou chantit chu cantique en Jèrriais au sèrvice à Saint Pièrre l'27 d'Avri 2012:

S'n amour, tchi qui l'saithait?
man Saûveux m'a aimé,
mouontré s'n amour au laid
à seule fîn qu'i' sait bé.
Ah tchi qué j'sis,
qu'pouor man péché,
l'Seigneu fut né
épis mouothit?

I' vînt du Paradis
pouor bailli san salut,
fut traité d'êtrangi
et n'tait janmais r'connu:
mais ah! m'n anmîn,
m'n anmîn dé vrai,
tchi pouor m'èrgraie
vînt à sa fîn.

Tchiquefais i' sièvent san c'mîn
et chantent des chants dé jouaie
à c'menchi du matîn
des hôsannas au rouai.
Pis, "À la crouaix!"
est tout lus chant
et pouor san sang
i' bueûlent et braient

Pouortchi qu'y'a tant d'dêpiet?
Mais! Tch'est don qu'il a fait?
I' r'couothent, les êstropiés;
et les aveugl'yes èrvaient.
Tchi bieau mêché!
Mais l'dgéthîthon
est lus raison
pouor l'machacrer.

Pouor machacrer l'Seigneu,
les v'là à trisonner;
à êpaîngni un tueux,
à condamner l'angné.
I' va enfîn
à suffâtchi,
dé ioù lâtchi
touos ses ennemîns.

I' n'y'avait pon d'abri
pouor l'Seigneu ichîn bas,
mais d'la main d'l'êtrangi,
eune tombe à san trépas.
Mais san siez-li
est dans la glouaithe;
et man chînm'tchiéthe,
san p'tit abri.

Ch'est-i' divîn, chu r'cit!
J'en chant'tai à janmais,
d'l'amour et du pitchi
tch'a mouontré man chièr Rouai.
Ch'est li, m'n anmîn,
et toute ma vie
j'pouôrrais l'louangi
sans v'nîn à fîn.

My song is love unknown

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take, frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
Themselves displease, and ’gainst Him rise.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

In life, no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say? Heav’n was His home;
But mine the tomb wherein He lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend, in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.