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.