The humble flower swaying free,
Bent down in prayer as winds blew by.
No glimpse of greed nor poverty,
Stretched up again below the sky.
Listen closely to the flower’s song,
As pedals play their part.
To turn Man’s eye a moment long,
To God’s great work of art.
“See order in my rhythm,
See plan in my design.
See prayer in my precision.
I’m sent here as a sign.
Ponder now, before I’m gone,
For winter here draws nigh.
Without knowledge of why we’re here,
Is not wisdom but a lie?
And as I sing my final song.
Take this as what we learn.
To God it is we all belong,
And to Him is our return.”