In a corner on a table on a spread of Ivory lace,
Framed and kissed by pastel colors,
Dancing through the crystal vase;
Scarlet red it's petals, opened in full bloom,
Taking nothing but the sunshine,
Leaving fragrance in the room.
Hands reached out without a reason,
Crushed and bruised the petals so,
Causing yet a sweeter fragrance from the weeping, dying rose;
Lying now in ruins to wither,
Scattered now by careless hands,
Once an art of perfect beauty dies, to never bloom again.
In a corner of a stable on a spread of swaddling-clothes,
Just a tiny bud, but destined to become the Perfect Rose;
Angels hailed His entrance, Wise Men brought Him gold,
Knowing little of the suffering that would soon befall the Rose.
Hands reached out without a reason,
Crushed and bruised the Perfect Rose,
Causing yet a sweeter fragrance as the crimson color flowed;
Ugly thorns had never marred it,
'Til a crown of thorns He wore,
Tasting death, the Rose of Sharon,
Rose to bloom forevermore.
Tasting death, the Rose of Sharon,
Rose to bloom forevermore!
Rose to bloom forevermore!
Rose to bloom forevermore!
Rose to bloom forevermore!