Garden

O Painter of the fruits and flowers,We own Thy wise design,Whereby these human hands of oursMay share the work of Thine!

Apart from Thee we plant in vainThe root and sow the seed;Thy early and Thy later rain,Thy sun and dew we need.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness,Our burden is our boon;The curse of Earth’s gray morning isThe blessing of its noon.

Why search the wide world everywhereFor Eden’s unknown ground?That garden of the primal pairMay nevermore be found.

But, blest by Thee, our patient toilMay right the ancient wrong,And give to every clime and soilThe beauty lost so long.

Our homestead flowers and fruited treesMay Eden’s orchard shame;We taste the tempting sweets of theseLike Eve, without her blame.

And, North and South and East and West,The pride of every zone,The fairest, rarest, and the bestMay all be made our own.

Its earliest shrines the young world soughtIn hill-groves and in bowers,The fittest offerings thither broughtWere Thy own fruits and flowers.

And still with reverent hands we cullThy gifts each year renewed;The good is always beautiful,The beautiful is good.