"I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said,
So into the garden with her I went
And stood for awhile at the rose's bed
As she stooped to her labor of sentiment.
"Why not the full blown blossom there?
Why do you leave it and pass it by?"
Those were the questions I asked of her.
And she answered me: "It is soon to die."
"Here is a withered and blasted rose,
Better without it the plant would be;
Cut it and mingle it now with those
You are taking away for your friend to see."
"Here is a peony stained and torn,
Take it and cling to your choicest bloom."
But she answered me with a look of scorn:
"These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room."
"Only the tenderest bud I'll take.
Never the withered and worn and old;
Of my fairest flowers is the gift I make
By which my love for my friend is told."
"So, when the angels call," said I,
"And fold in their arms a little child,
Passing the old and the broken by,
Think of this and be reconciled.
"Always the tenderest buds they take,
Pure and lovely and undefiled.
When a gift of love unto God they'd make,
Always they come for a little child."
Questioning
You shall wonder as you meet
Drunkards reeling down the street,
Helpless cripples and the blind,
Human wrecks of every kind
Living on from day to day,
Why your loved one couldn't stay.