 | Women must weep |  |
174
ENGLISH ROSEBUDS.
Rosebuds
from the Master's garden,
Pretty English rosebuds they,
Though the thorns about them harden,
And the leaflets gather grey;
God, for us to be enchanted,
Set them in a sacred bound;
Only man has them transplanted,
Into bad and barren ground;
And the dews no longer glisten,
As they sweetly used to be—
Yea, they cry, if we would listen,
“Man, be merciful to me!”
Pretty English rosebuds they,
Though the thorns about them harden,
And the leaflets gather grey;
God, for us to be enchanted,
Set them in a sacred bound;
Only man has them transplanted,
Into bad and barren ground;
And the dews no longer glisten,
As they sweetly used to be—
Yea, they cry, if we would listen,
“Man, be merciful to me!”
Rosebuds for the Master's keeping,
English rosebuds pretty still,
Faded because we are sleeping,
Who should rescue them from ill;
Blighted because we are blinded,
By the dazzle of the earth,
Till with thorn-pricks just reminded
They are all condemn'd to dearth;
Blighted, and yet meant for beauty,
If they gladly fared as we,
Bidding brothers do their duty—
“Man, be merciful to me!”
English rosebuds pretty still,
Faded because we are sleeping,
Who should rescue them from ill;
Blighted because we are blinded,
By the dazzle of the earth,
Till with thorn-pricks just reminded
They are all condemn'd to dearth;
Blighted, and yet meant for beauty,
If they gladly fared as we,
Bidding brothers do their duty—
“Man, be merciful to me!”
Rosebuds whom the Master waters,
Pretty English rosebuds soil'd,
But not less His chosen daughters,
Whom He troubled for and toil'd;
Whom He gives the happy shining
Of the sunlight sent to all—
Love that raises, while refining,
Souls that had the foulest fall;
Souls that in a heavenlier Eden
Yet again shall blossom free,
Weeping now, as heavy-laden—
“Man, be merciful to me!”
Pretty English rosebuds soil'd,
But not less His chosen daughters,
Whom He troubled for and toil'd;
Whom He gives the happy shining
Of the sunlight sent to all—
Love that raises, while refining,
Souls that had the foulest fall;
Souls that in a heavenlier Eden
Yet again shall blossom free,
Weeping now, as heavy-laden—
“Man, be merciful to me!”
175
Rosebuds whom the Master quickens,
Pretty English rosebuds torn,
When the wounded spirit sickens
In the darkness before morn;
When from man comes no protection,
Who can only note the scar,
Though the Lord's divine affection
Sees through clouds the rising star;
Sees, beneath the legal sentence,
Fashion of a fairer tree,
Mighty faith and meek repentance—
“God be merciful to me!”
Pretty English rosebuds torn,
When the wounded spirit sickens
In the darkness before morn;
When from man comes no protection,
Who can only note the scar,
Though the Lord's divine affection
Sees through clouds the rising star;
Sees, beneath the legal sentence,
Fashion of a fairer tree,
Mighty faith and meek repentance—
“God be merciful to me!”
| Women must weep | |