Fair was the garden, blest with flowers,
Where Jesus strayed in childhood's hours;
Tending the red rose blossoms there,
Meet for a crown for Him to wear.

To see the roses in their prime,
The children came at morning time.
They plucked the flowers in wanton play,
Strewing the petals on the way.

"How wilt thou twine a garland fair?
The flowers are dead, the tree is bare".
Then He replied, "I surely gain
A crown of thorns, for they remain."

Then of the thorns the children made
A crown of glory, ne'er to fade,
And in the red rose blossoms' place
Were drops of blood His brow to grace.


Words and Music: P. I. Tchaikovsky (Op 54, No. 5)
English translation: W. G. Rotheby