How oft, while wandering through some desert place,
I’ve met a poor, pale, thirsty little flower,
Looking toward heaven, with its patient face,
In dying expectation of a shower.
And when the sweet compassion of the skies
Fell, like a charm, upon its sickly bloom,
Oh! what a grateful stream gushed from its eyes
Toward Him who cared to snatch it from the tomb.
And, oh! when all its leaves seemed folding up
Into the tender bud of other days,
What clouds of incense, from the deepening cup,
Rolled upward with the burden of its praise.
And then I thought, in this dry land of ours
How few, that feel affliction’s chastening rod,
Are like the poor, pale, thirsty little flowers,
With their meek faces turned toward their God.
How few, when angry clouds and storms depart,
And all the light of heaven reappears,
Are found with incense rising in a heart
Dissolved, before His throne, in grateful tears.
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