A man on a cross wears a crown made of thorn,

To a tree of old reverence, new stigma is born.

It was decreed that the thorn be sanctified,

For it touched the King’s head, before he had died.

For Joseph’s staff, came the Glastonbury thorn,

On Wearyall Hill, this hawthorn was born.

Even today this ritual seen,

They take from it blossom, to give to the Queen.

So mark the fair blooming of the Hawthorn Tree,

So sacred and loved throughout history.

Your stories, your mysteries, your legends are told,

Revered by the new, and religions of old.

But far back in time, as memories go,

with “May” and the “Whitehorn” with petals like snow.

We’ve danced with the Goddess, we’ve loved in the green,

Evocative Beltane, joys to be seen.

Old paths and track-ways, with flowering thorn,

Guiding the traveller, beginning at dawn.

Traveling here and traveling there,

Young summers scent hangs in the air.

So mark the fair blooming of the Hawthorn Tree,

So sacred and loved throughout history.

Your stories, your mysteries, your legends are told,

Revered by the new, and religions of old.

Burning bright, and healing strong,

Worshipped now, and worshipped long.

Stand supreme in the month of May,

Robed in white, in nature’s play.

Far back in time, as memories go,

With “May” and the “Whitehorn” with petals like snow,

We’ve danced with the Goddess, we’ve loved in the green,

Evocative Beltane, joys to be seen.

So mark the fair blooming of the Hawthorn Tree,

So sacred and loved throughout history.

Your stories, your mysteries, your legends are told,

Revered by the new, and religions of old.