WELCOME once more, sweet messenger of spring,
Long have we waited for thy blossoming;
Oft have we watched to see thy slender stem
Burst the hard ground and rise to life again.
In Winter’s arms long cradled hast thou lain,
But now, sweet flower, he finds his efforts vain
To hold thee longer from our waiting eyes,
For nature’s gentle voice hath bid thee rise.
Oh beauteous flower, with what untold delight
I watch thy glories open to my sight;
Thy fragile form just bursting into bloom,
As if to tell of sunny days to come.
I love to see thee hang thy modest head,
As if ashamed to have thy beauties spread;
Fain would I more and more resemble thee,
Thou fairest emblem of humility.
But as I gaze and wonder at the power
That gave such beauties to a simple flower,
On wings of faith my spirit soars above,
And contemplates the vastness of that love
That graced this sin-polluted world of ours
With such a rich variety of flowers.
Ye atheists, who doubt, or rather try
To doubt, the being of that God on high,
Whose majesty is everywhere displayed,
E’en in the smallest things his hands have made,
Behold this flower, adorned with beauties rare!
Could human hands have spread such beauties there?
Could earthly power have caused that slender stem,
Long buried in the ground, to rise again?
Ah, no! there is, there is a higher power
That formed e’en this and every other flower.
Oh if such beauteous works on earth abound,
How passing fair will Paradise be found;
Earth’s fairest flowers soon fade and fall away,
But those above shall never know decay.
Great God! we praise Thee for these blessings, given
To cheer our weary pilgrimage to heaven;
But more we praise Thee for that wondrous love,
That gave one gift all other gifts above—
Jesus, Thy well-beloved, Thy only Son,
To bleed and die for sins that we had done.
Yes! He on whom Thy whole delight was placed,
Who dwelt from everlasting on Thy breast;
Yet He could leave His home of happiness,
And yield Himself a willing sacrifice.
But wherefore did the blessed Saviour die?
What made Him leave His glorious home on high?
Oh ye, whose stony hearts have never felt
The value of that blood on Calvary spilled;
Oh listen to His last expiring cry,
“Father forgive them, ’tis for them I die!”
Dear precious Lord, revive my drooping frame,
To spread abroad the sweetness of Thy name;
That others may Thy great salvation see,
By hearing what the Lord hath done for me.