When Flesh Was Dead
You gave me bread when I wanted a flower,
Wanted a valiant primrose flower,
A flower strong with the joy of Spring,
A flower to make me sing.
You gave me bread when I wanted a harp,
Wanted a deep-toned singing harp,
A harp with a tongue in every string,
A harp to make me sing.
My soul was starved—I took the bread.
How could I sing when flesh was dead?