I wish I were a flower of some kind, That grows in the garden of my Master; A flower that adorns the heads I find, Or one a priest places on God's altar.
Let me be not a flower 'midst the thorns, that's useless; undergoes strangulation; Nor one on mountain-side, plucked by Goat-horns, But one with fragrance for veneration.
But let me be a flower that is plucked, By human hands, meant for some good purpose; At least the one that is bee-nectar-sucked; A sweet-smelling one perhaps like the Rose. Whatever I be oh God, I must Thee serve, Or thine fellowmen and thine praise deserve.
