She wears a flower crown of blossoms and thorns.
Her man has an angel’s light, and not Satan’s horns.
Thorns prick little points of blood upon her fair brow.
Sorrow and beauty, loss in grace, in her sacred bough.
She wears a simple and splendid dress, takes his hand.
They dance, Children of God, of this bright, golden land.
Hymns they have song, of summer eternal, endless blue.
Where all are reunited and comforted if they lived true.
He touches her face, kisses her cheek, she closes her eyes.
The warmth of another, tenderness, a wished for surprise.
When they wed, crown gone, but blossoms, thorns remain.
Love stays, but angels and demons still watch in the cold rain.
She kisses his lips, they will wed tomorrow, they will be one.
Her crown floated in the water, candle bright, taken by that son.
The thorns in her brow, the color in the blossoms, the blood shed.
The vows of two souls, and the sharp swords, when two become wed.