Roses
R. Arbo

On the streets of New York City, where the asphalt greets the sun
Morning slips in sideways like a cheater on the run
She's out there on the sidewalk, kneeling at her toil
Pulling weeds for Jesus with her knuckles in the soil

She is no Saint Theresa, she is no paragon
Her fingernails are dirty, her old blue jeans are worn
She doesn't talk to strangers, she hardly knows you’re there
She doesn't want your money, she doesn’t want your prayers

Because this is God's dominion, this is peace on Earth
This is what she's put here for, this is what she's worth
Other things that matter have slowly slipped away
Now she grows her roses, she grows her roses
And she grows her roses all day

She remembers a young woman with hair as fine as gold
She remembers all her lovers, she remembers growing old
She remembers meeting Jesus, she can recall that day
She gave him all her seeds of darkness, he buried him away

Now she coaxes hope from concrete, she coaxes right from wrong
She makes the Spanish ladies break into their Spanish songs
When at night the smell her roses in the streetlamp's yellow sun
And they dream of summer dresses and the streets of old San Juan

Because this is God's dominion, this is peace on Earth
This is what she's put here for, this is what she’s worth
Other things that matter have slowly slipped away
Now she grows her roses, she grows her roses
And she grows her roses all day