At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee,
        A rose of joy and happy love and peace,
                A rose with scarce a thorn:
                But in the chillness of a second morn
        My rose bush drooped, and all its gay increase
Was but one thorn that wounded me.

I plucked the thorn and offered it to Thee;
        And for my thorn Thou gavest love and peace,
                Not joy this mortal morn:
                If Thou hast given much treasure for a thorn,
        Wilt thou not give me for my rose increase
Of gladness, and all sweets to me?

My thorny rose, my love and pain, to Thee
        I offer; and I set my heart in peace,
                And rest upon my thorn:
                For verily I think to-morrow morn
        Shall bring me Paradise, my gift's increase,
Yea, give Thy very Self to me.