O Jesu! O my Love! Each eve I come to fling

Before Thy sacred Cross sweet flowers of all the year.

By these plucked petals bright, my hands how gladly bring,

I long to dry Thine every tear!

To scatter flowers! — that means each sacrifice,

My lightest sighs and pains, my heaviest, saddest hours,

My hopes, my joys, my prayers, — I will not count the price.

Behold my flowers!

With deep, untold delight Thy beauty fills my soul.

Would I might light this love in hearts of all who live!

For this, my fairest flowers, all things in my control,

How fondly, gladly I would give!

To scatter flowers! — behold my chosen sword

For saving sinners’ souls and filling heaven’s bowers.

The victory is mine: yes, I disarm Thee, Lord,

With these my flowers!

The petals in their flight caress Thy Holy Face;

They tell Thee that my heart is Thine, and Thine alone.

Thou knowest what these leaves are saying in my place;

On me Thou smilest from Thy throne.

To scatter flowers! — that means, to speak of Thee, —

­ My only pleasure here, where tears fill all the hours;

But soon, with angel hosts, my spirit shall be free,

To scatter flowers!