A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed
With crimson glory, may be sweet—
'T is 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.