When flowers are red and gold and white,

And fair is every weed,

The green reeds have no blossom bright—

I would not be a reed.

For all the summer flowers declare

In beauty men can see,

How sweet, how glorious, how fair,

The thoughts of God must be.

Then cut a wandering shepherd boy

A hollow pipe of reed;

His little tune of mirth and joy

Rang far across the mead.

It was the gladness of his heart

That flowed in music free,

The wild bird has no sweeter art

That sings upon the tree.

Oh, could I be the little reed,

To tell afar and near

The joy and love of God above,

In music sweet and clear!

And all around should hear the sound,

And know that love Divine

Is not my own, but God’s alone,

His music, and not mine.

Sweet words should cheer the weary ear,

And tender words the sad,

And none should heed how small the reed;

God’s love would make them glad.