By B. W.
There is grace in the leaves of the unfolding rose,
In the calm of the floating swan,
In the bend of a river that swiftly flows,
And the bridge of a single span.
There is grace in the sweep of a midnight sky,
In the bounds of a wild gazelle,
In the measures of music rolling by,
And the tale which the poets tell.
There is grace in the round of that baby’s arm;
In the form that is bending to kiss;
There is grace in all ways that quietly charm
And that silently waken bliss.
But the grace which most deeply enamors my heart
Is the bearing of Jesus to me;
—How quietly he with all riches could part,
A man and a Savior to be.
In him is more fulness of all I call grace,
Than the eye or the heart e’er possessed.
His knowledge is heaven, wherever the place;
His beauty, my quietest rest.