وَجْهُ الصَّبَاحِ تَلَأْلَأَتْ أَنْوَارُهُ

إِذْ طَيَّبَتْ أَرْدَانَهُ أَنْوَارُهُ

The morning's face gleamed with its lights

The face of the morning gleamed with its lights,

When its meadows were fragrant with its lights

As the blossoms perfumed its flowing sleeves.

ثَمِلَتْ رِيَاضُ الْحُزْنِ مِنْ أَنْدَائِهِ

لِلَّهِ مَا صَنَعَتْ بِهِنَّ عُقَارُهُ

The gardens of sorrow blossomed with its melodies

The gardens of sorrow grew intoxicated from its dews;

By the grace of Him who created its herbs

By God, what wonders its wine has wrought upon them!

فَتَأَوَّدَتْ أَغْصَانُهَا شُكْراً لِمَنْ

صَدَحَتْ بِحَمْدِ جَلاَلِهِ أَطْيَارُهُ

So its branches inclined in thanks to the One

So its branches swayed in gratitude to the One

Whose birds chanted praise of His Majesty

In praise of whose majesty the birds have sung.