A legend of this little flower,
I heard not long ago;
'Tis this, that when upon the cross
The sinless Saviour died,
And soldier with his cruel spear
Had pierced his precious side,
The holy drops flowed to his feet,
Then fell upon the sod,
When Mary knelt and wept for Him,
Her son, and yet her God;
An angel who was hovering near,
Thus breathed a prayer to heaven:
"Oh, Father, let them not be lost,
These drops so freely given,
But in some form of beauty still,
Let them remain on earth,
And here upon this rugged hill,
Give some sweet floweret birth."
Then, forth from the ensanguined sod,
A Fuchsia sprang that morn,
Rich crimson, dyed with Christian blood,
Wrapped in his "robe of scorn,"
Drooping in sorrow, still it bows
Ever its graceful head;
Shivering in the slightest breeze--
Trembling in fear and dread;
For the dark shadow of the cross
Can ne'er forgotten be,
Where all the perfume of its breath
Was spent on Calvary.
Yes, offering its rich fragrance there,
As incense at His feet,
The Fuchsia, though so beautiful,
Can never be more sweet.