Flowers, Mother, flowers!
I’ve some flowers for you;
I had none when I first came;
I gathered some on my way to you.
But Mother, they’re ruddy with rust,
Their blades are sharp;
They’ll cut into Thy tender feet,
I dare not drop them as my offering;
I’ll stand by your throne,
These flowers in my hand.
When it pleases you Mother,
Pickup the ones you would like to have.