A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed

With crimson glory may be sweet;

‘ Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed

Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

The rose that waves upon its tree,

In life sheds perfume all around;

More sweet the perfume floats to me

Of roses trampled on the ground.

The waving rose with every breath

Scents carelessly the summer air;

The wounded rose bleeds forth in death

A sweetness far more rich and rare.

It is a truth beyond our ken —

And yet a truth that all may read —

It is with roses as with men,

The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom

Out of a heart all full of grace,

Gave never forth its full perfume

Until the cross became its vase.