Saturday, August 15, 2009
Beside my cottage door it grows,
The loveliest, daintiest thing that blows,
A sweetbrier rose.
At dewy morn or twilight's close,
The rarest perfume from it flows,
This strange wild rose.
But when the raindrops on it beat,
Ah, then, its odors grow more sweet
About my feet.
Often with loving tenderness
Its soft green leaves I gently press
In sweet caress.
A still more wondrous fragrance flows
The more my loving fingers close
And crush the rose.
Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so,
Its perfume when the strong winds blow,
The sweeter flow.
And should it be Your blessed will,
With crushing grief my soul to fill,
Press harder still.
And while its dying fragrance flows
I'll whisper low, "He loves and knows
His crushed brier rose."
(author unknown, from Streams in the Desert)