By bunches, blue and yellow,
My eyes have seen these, little flowers.
On the wild, by the road,
In a painted little pot,
Or the cracks of a grey, old sidewalk.
What do you sing, little flowers?
What do you hide, little stars?
A cold's about you,
Yet you shine so bright,
So tender, so graceful,
So filled with sweet,
Sweet delight.
Oh, blue and yellow,
Blue and yellow morning stars!
Do you hide what I seek?
The beauty, oh so sweet?
Or here, in this place,
Stand you, alone,
Instead of warm embrace?
What do you sing, little flowers?
What do you hide, little stars?
Your sight, so pleasing,
So easily deceiving,
But I must yet seek,
That which I'm missing,
In this, oh, so cynical world.
Forget-me-nots, what do you say?
What is it I shan't forget?
These little things, of blue and gold,
Are but one, one in Him,
Since time untold.
Who do you sing to, little flowers?
Who do you hide, you little stars?