Flowers of pure and saintly white I have seen in holy places,

Where the incense rises faintly, And the priest the chalice raises;

Where the organ’s deep-toned music Thro’ the vaulted arches ringeth,

And the choir of white-robed children Holy, holy, holy! singeth.

But no flower of earthly blooming, In the garden or the meadow,

In the sunlight’s golden glory, Or the valley’s cooling shadow,

Is so pure and so celestial As the Lily of the Spirit,

Which the pure in heart, and holy, In the life to come inherit.

Not the lily of the valley, With its bells of silver ringing,

Where the streamlet in the forest Evermore is sweetly singing;

Not the lily of the mountain, Where the morning sunlight breaketh,

And the glory of its coming All the sleeping world awaketh;

But a flower of heavenly beauty, In the spirit’s garden growing,

With a fragrance more than earthly, And with life immortal glowing;—

This the flower of pure and saintly, This the flower of heavenly graces,

Which I see in holy places, Where the priest the chalice raises.

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