AS the lily of the valley,
White and pure and sweet,
As the lowly violet trodden
Under wandering feet;
As the rose amidst the briars
Fresh and fair is found,
Heedless of the tangled thicket,
And the thorns around—
As the sun-flower ever turning
To the mighty sun,
With the faithfulness of fealty
Following only one—
So make me, Lord, to Thee.
J. Tauler.