I like to think in springtime
Of a garden far away.
Where a tomb was standing empty
On the resurrection day.
And the lowly grass was honored
Where the pierced feet had trod,
While the birds in joyous carol
Sang their praises there to God;
How the flowers must have welcomed
One so like them—fair and pure—
He to whom the earth in trouble
Had so often turned for cure!
In the dawning lay that garden
Filled with flowers' sweetest breath;
What renewing—what returning—
With no slightest hint of death!
