Dainty little buttercup,
Golden yellow bloom,
With thy beauty I would sup,
In the evening gloom.

Modest little violet,
Hiding in the grass;
Raise thy head above the wet,
To a looking-glass.

Pretty little mountain pink,
Springtime knows thy blush;
Viewing thee I pause to think:
Whence came that sweet flush?

Solemn little soft-eyed sprite,
Tell me, pansy dear,
Who made thee so small and bright?
Is He somewhere near?

Lags my memory behind,
Sweet forget-me-not,
If I do not call to mind
Him who made thy frock?

Peaceful waters are thy bed,
Lily of the pond;
Restest thou thy gentle head
Pillowed in love's bond?

He who clothed the mountain,
With its lovely pink,
Must have trimmed the fountain,
'Neath the hilltop's brink.

There reposes purity,
White as wind-blown sail,
In thy life dwells chastity,
Lily of the vale.

Ah, frail flowers, with sunlight blest,
Bathed with cooling rain,
Answer now at my behest,
Sing thy sweet refrain.
Who made pink to fill thy life?
Who that golden glow?
Whence came purple growing rife?
Who has made thee so?

Dull inquisitor, we bring
One response to thee;
That the anthem we would sing,
Tells of Calvary.

'Twas the Hand pierced by a nail,
Wounded sinfully,
That created us, so frail.
Kiss it thankfully!

C. L. Tichenor