The hours of the passion and other poems by Harriet Eleanor Hamilton-King |
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THE GARDEN OF THE HOLY SOULS |
 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
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THE GARDEN OF THE HOLY SOULS
In Thy garden, in Thy garden, though the rain
Fall, and the winds beat there,
And they stand unsheltered, piteous, in the storm,
They who were once so fair.
Fall, and the winds beat there,
And they stand unsheltered, piteous, in the storm,
They who were once so fair.
In Thy garden of the souls, where Thou art gardener,
Thou Who wast once so mild,
Now pruning down to naked stems and leafless
The roses that ran wild.
Thou Who wast once so mild,
Now pruning down to naked stems and leafless
The roses that ran wild.
Oh, Thy roses once waved in the wind so sweetly,
Though thick with thorns beset;
In the morning sunshine opening, and at evening
With cool dews wet.
Though thick with thorns beset;
In the morning sunshine opening, and at evening
With cool dews wet.
In Thy garden, where Thou walkest as a warder,
How poor, how small they stand;
Yet once their beauty, to the hearts that loved them,
Lighted the living land.
How poor, how small they stand;
Yet once their beauty, to the hearts that loved them,
Lighted the living land.
In Thy garden, where no smile of Thine is granted,
Yet keep within Thy heart,
A place in Paradise for these transplanted,
Still with Thee where Thou art.
Yet keep within Thy heart,
A place in Paradise for these transplanted,
Still with Thee where Thou art.
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In Thy garden, in Thy garden, where Thy roses
Without a thorn are sweet,
And each poor branch in endless wreaths uncloses
To kiss Thy feet!
Without a thorn are sweet,
And each poor branch in endless wreaths uncloses
To kiss Thy feet!
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