Might I choose the flower-soaked months of spring,
Or winding rose-fenced paths where men do trod,
Or a sweet voice, lifted, yearning to sing?
What might I find to resemble Our Lord?
A rich man's idol placed high on a stand,
Bought and made with gold, all his could afford;
His to dust, pray to, and blessings demand?
"Who is my equal," asks the Holy One?
It's he calls out and names the stary-host,
The One who rescues all, forgetting none;
A great God of whom his people might boast.
So long as he gives strength to me, increase;
So long as I let live let me decrease.
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