They were poor men, like you, like me;
they'd been casting their nets in the lake
or collecting taxes at the gates of the city.
I remember that amongst them all
there was not even a learned man,
and the one whom they called Master
was dead and buried in a tomb.
If you feel a breeze from heaven,
a wind shaking the doors,
listen, it's a voice that is calling you,
inviting you to travel afar.
There's a fire arising
in him who is waiting,
in him who cherishes
hopes of love.
They had a heart in their breast, like you, like me,
gripped by a fear cold as ice,
eyes that were dry, unable to cry anymore
and faces pale with fever and fear.
They surely were thinking about their lost friend,
about the woman left at the door of the house,
about the cross standing at the top of the hill.
If you feel a breeze from heaven…
And the wind shook the door of the house,
it entered wildly into the room,
and they had eyes and voices of fire;
they rushed out to sing their joy in the street.
Man, you who wait hidden in shadow,
the voice that is calling is really for you;
it brings you joy, it brings you good news:
the Kingdom of God has already come!
If you feel a breeze from heaven…