O weary child of toil and care,
Trembling at every cloud that lowers,
Come and behold how passing fair
Thy God hath made the flowers.
From every hillside’s sunny slope,
From every forest’s leafy shade
The flowers, sweet messengers of hope,
Bid thee “Be not afraid.”
The windflower blooms in yonder bower
All heedless of to-morrow’s storm,