WITHIN my hand I gently hold the Garden’s Queen, a rose,—

The softly-sighing summer wind about it faintly blows,

 And wafts its wondrous fragrance out upon the evening air.

And as I gaze upon the rose, so perfect and so fair,

In memory’s halls there wakes, the while, a legend, quaint and old,

How once upon a time, one day, a sage picked up, we’re told,

A lump of common clay, so redolent with perfume rare,

He marveled, and the question wondering asked,

“Whence dost thou bear Such fragrance.

O, thou lump of clay?” In tones of deep repose

There came the sweet reply. “I have been dwelling with the rose.”

The  while the legend stirs my soul, within my hand still he

The  petals of the rose, and from my heart of hearts I cry.

“Thou lovely Rose of Sharon, may I ever dwell with Thee,

So closely that the fragrance of Thy love shall cling to me!

Oh, fill me with the spirit of Thy sweet humility,

Then all shall see and know, dear Lord, that I have learned of Thee;

And let mine earthly pilgrimage, until its blessed close,

Each day and hour bear witness, I’ve been dwelling with the Rose!

*******

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