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At the crossways lies he buried
Whose own hand wrought his doom:
There a blue flower is growing—
“The wretched Sinner's bloom.”
I stood at the crossways sighing—
Cold was the dark night's gloom—
In the moonlight slowly waving
I saw the Sinner's bloom.
Whose own hand wrought his doom:
There a blue flower is growing—
“The wretched Sinner's bloom.”
I stood at the crossways sighing—
Cold was the dark night's gloom—
In the moonlight slowly waving
I saw the Sinner's bloom.
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