Added the same dying saint, as she thought of the Cross— “it’s a beautiful tree for me to pick from.”
That beautiful tree! that beautiful tree!
Its fruit, oh how sweet to a sinner like me;
The fruit of the tree where the Saviour bled,
Prom the wounds in His side, His hands, and His head.
Of this tree I may pluck, no barrier around,
No wall of partition, though holy the ground;
No fierce flaming sword, no cherubim here,
But the soft voice of love whispers “nothing to fear.”
In safety I rest ‘neath the shade of the tree,
A blood-sprinkled cover is spread over me;
Though bitter the thought, ‘twas for all that I am,
I’ve joy as I feed on my passover Lamb.
Thus sorrow and joy are poured into my soul,
And deep streams of peace as a broad river roll;
And love passing knowledge, that reaches to me,
I drink as it streams from that beautiful tree.
Though waters of Marah abound in the waste,
That beautiful tree can sweeten their taste;
The burden of sin, or sufferings and loss,
They vanish and fall at the foot of the cross.
Oh, beautiful tree! oh beautiful tree!
Unsearchable riches are treasured in thee:
The heights and the depths we shall never explore
Till the garner of Jesus is full of thy store.
And then shall I know even as I am known;
No stammering lips thy blessings shall own,
But bursting at once from a blood-ransom’d throng,
Shall roll a full tide of eternal song.
Worthy the Lamb! that bought us with blood,
All glory to Thee, thou blest Son of God!
And blessing, and honor, and praise unto
Thee, Who hast died for our sins on that beautiful tree!