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.