It’s just a tiny purple bloom
That I hold in my hand,
And yet it bears resemblance to
Something that’s far more grand.
For in her face I see the sun,
Her petals, its bright rays,
And her life is a reflection
Of old Sol’s cheery ways.
Thus can a humble lump of clay,
Formed by immortal hand,
Reflect, as well, the Good Lord’s Grace…
Here, joyfully, I stand!
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