What offering can I bring,
What does my Lord desire,
Is it immense wealth and riches,
A high pile of earthly treasure?
For I cannot offer any of these,
I have neither gold nor jewels,
Save my golden laughter in joy,
And my crystal tears shed in sorrow.

Might I offer instead a gift of flowers,
For I have a few of those to give,
But I've planted seeds for a garden--
And from this will my flowers grow.

Does my Lord desire greatness from me,
Must I for him conquer the world--
For I don't think I could do it,
And I would lose myself in so trying.
No, the world I cannot give to Him,
Nor do I have greatness to offer,
But meekness and humility I have,
Poverty is my only possession.

I hope He'll accept these flowers,
For I've striven to let them live,
Sowing the seeds in my garden,
And now the buds are soon to show.

What deeds can I perform,
What does my Lord find pleasing?
Need I work miracles as homage,
Wonders wrought by my own hand?
It is not for me to work miracles alone,
And what in this wonderless age inspires--
Awe is in short supply in this age of incredulity;
In such times my every effort is small.
I can't offer anything great or grand,
Yet what little I have I can offer Him.

I pray He'll love my flowers,
And hope that my poverty He'll forgive,
They're blooming in my garden,
A small gift to my Lord from here below.

If my small sacrifices go even a little way
Towards the furthering of my Lord's honor--
Then may it please Him a little at least,
And may He accept it as a small token,
For I have nothing more to offer than this,
Little more than this spiritual flower.