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A WITHERED ROSE.
Jesus, when Thou didst leave Thy Mother’s fond embrace, Let go her hand; And first, on our hard earth, Thy little foot didst place, And trembling stand; Within Thy pathway, then fresh rose-leaves would I spread, — Their Maker’s dower, — That so Thy tiny feet might very softly tread Upon a flower. |
These scattered rose-leaves form true image of a soul, O Child most dear! That longs to immolate itself, complete and whole, Each moment here. On Thy blest altars, Lord, fresh roses fain would shine, Radiant, near Thee; They gladly give themselves. Another dream is mine, — To fade for Thee! |
How gaily decks Thy feasts, dear Child, a rose newblown, Fragrant and fair! But withered roses are forgot, — the wild winds’ own, — Cast anywhere. Their scattered leaves seek now no earthly joy or pelf; For self, no gain. Ah, little Jesus! so, I give Thee all! Of self, Let naught remain. |
These roses trampled lie beneath the passer’s tread, Unmarked, unknown. I comprehend their lot; — these leaves, though pale and dead, Are still Thine own. For Thee they die; as I my time, my life, my all Have spent for Thee. Men think a fading rose am I, whose leaves must fall At death’s decree. |
For Thee I die, for Thee, Jesus, Thou Fairest Fair! — Joy beyond telling! — Thus, fading, would I prove my love beyond compare, All bliss excelling. Beneath Thy feet, Thy way to smooth, through life’s long night, My heart would lie; And softening Thy hard path up Calvary’s awful height, I thus would die. |
May, 1897
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