No bloom of spring had dared to lift
Its head above the froz­en ground,
In snow-wrapped for­ests not a gift
For East­er beau­ty could be found.

No gold had I for li­lies white
To make Christ’s tem­ple sweet and fair,
Nor ros­es whose rich per­fume might
Rise up in in­cense with my pray­er.

And as I sor­rowed that my love
For my dear Lord could not be shown,
I slept and dreamed I bent above
The fair­est blos­soms ev­er known.

It was the gar­den of the King
Where an­gels ga­thered all the flow­ers
That were His East­er of­fer­ing
Upon this bless­èd earth of ours.

Alas, no gift of mine, I cried,
Will bloom this year above the skies!
Then spoke an an­gel by my side,
“Not in the flow­er the of­fer­ing lies.

“A ho­ly thought, a low­ly prayer
Some sad heart cheered and com­fort­ed,
Will live here as a li­ly fair
When all the earth­born flow­ers are dead.

The sweetest blos­soms here were made
By deeds of self-for­get­ful love.
Go, give Christ’s needy child­ren aid,
And East­er buds will bloom above.