As Ma­ry walked in the gar­den green
Of Jo­seph of Ari­ma­thee,
Fair shrubs and flow­ers she passed be­tween,
Tall palm and the wide plane tree.
’Twas ear­ly morn as with spice and balm
Full la­den she went, when lo!
She thought she heard in an ac­cent calm
A voice which she seemed to know:

Refrain

I am the Gar­den­er true!
Mine are the vio­lets blue,
The li­ly all white,
And the rose so bright,
And pan­sy of pur­ple hue!

As Ma­ry came to the tomb of stone,
She could not her grief con­tain,
Now full aware that no Christ was there,
Who late in the rock had lain.
And bit­ter grief in her soul was stirred,
When hard by the grave’s low cell
She felt right sure that a voice she heard,
A voice which she knew full well:

Refrain

As Ma­ry list­ened, she gazed around,
When, dim in the morn­ing gloom,
She saw One stand with a spade in hand,
Full close to the sac­red tomb.
Good sir, now tell, hast thou borne Him hence?
O say where He now doth lie!
While lo! seemed borne to her list­en­ing sense,
From some bless­èd bright One nigh:

Refrain

As Ma­ry heark­ened, her name she heard:
O Ma­ry!— She turned in haste,
And joy shone out at the gra­cious word,
Which ev­ery fear ef­faced.
Rabboni! Lord! ’Twas her mas­ter good
She wel­comed with love’s sur­vey,
Who ’neath a gar­dener’s guise had stood,
And seemed to her soul to say:

Refrain

As Ma­ry mused up­on things un­seen,
She learnt how the Lord doth scan,
And claim each flow­er­et and blos­som green
Which blooms in the heart of man.
Fair buds of hope, and of long­ings nigh,
With pu­ri­ty’s flow­er of snow,
And glow­ing love with its ver­meil dye,
And cha­ri­ty’s pur­ple glow.

He is the Gar­den­er true!
His are the vio­lets blue,
The li­ly all white,
And the rose so bright,
And pan­sy of pur­ple hue!