1  Is it raining, little flower?

       Oh, be glad of rain!

    Too much sun would wither thee;

       Soon 'twill shine again.

    Though the sky is black, 'tis true,

    Yet behind it shines the blue.

 2  Art thou weary, tender heart?

       Oh, be glad of pain;

    Sweetest things in sorrow grow

       As the flow'rs in rain.

    God is watching, thou'lt have sun

    When the clouds their work have done.