The finest flow’r that e’er was known,
Opened on Calv’ry’s tree.
When Christ the Lord was pierced and torn,
For love of worthless me.
Its deepest hue, its richest smell,
No mortal sense can bear;
Nor can the tongue of angels tell
How bright its colors are.

Earth could not hold so rich a flow’r,
Nor half its beauties show;
Nor could the world and Satan’s pow’r
Confine it here below.
Love is the sweetest bud that blows,
Its beauty never dies;
On earth among the saints it grows,
And ripens in the skies.

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