Here, Lord, we of­fer Thee all that is fair­est,
Bloom from the gar­den, and flow­ers from the field;
Gifts for the strick­en ones, know­ing Thou car­est
More for the love than the wealth that we yield.

Send, Lord, by these to the sick and the dy­ing,
Speak to their hearts with a mes­sage of peace;
Comfort the sad, who in weak­ness are ly­ing,
Grant the de­part­ing a gen­tle re­lease.

Raise, Lord, to health
Those again who have sick­ened,
Fair be their lives as the ros­es in bloom;
Give of Thy grace to the souls Thou hast quick­ened,
Gladness for sor­row, and bright­ness for gloom.

We, Lord, like flow­ers,
Must bloom and must wi­ther;
We, like these blooms, must fade and must die;
Gather us, Lord, to Thy bosom for­ev­er,
Grant us a place in Thy house in the sky.