THE SWEET-BRIER ROSE

BESIDE my cottage door it grows,

loveliest, daintiest flower that blows,

A sweet-brier 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!

Oft times with loving tenderness

Its soft green leaves I gently press

In sweet caress,—

A still more wondrous fragrance flows,

The more my fingers firmly close,

And crush the rose!

*        *       *

Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so,—

Its perfume when the tempests blow,

The sweeter flow!

 And should it be Thy 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."

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