Sing flowers sing.
Sing of your Creator loud and clear,
Sing flowers sing.
In all your glorious splendor, sing
In all your glorious splendor, sing
to my heart so oft to doubt that I’ll be clothed tomorrow.
Sing flowers sing.
Of your coming King Victorious.
Of your coming King Victorious.
Sing.
No matter how dirty the corner of the world you live,
Or how dark the darkness.
No matter how deep the sorrow that you face each night.
Or the broken loneliness.
Or the broken loneliness.
Still there are flowers that sing.
And still your voice too, must be heard, for, if not
The rocks would cry out.
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