“Do cut that miserable little rose tree down,” said my thoughtless friend, “it has never had a flower.” “No, dear friend,” I exclaimed, “I will not, it may come to blossom yet.” And so it did! The following summer I counted myself, with such joy, fifty roses on it, and more.
This makes me think of some poor soul who has not yet come to Jesus Christ for salvation, and whose life may appear utterly useless; but when he or she does know Christ, they will each one bear many roses for the Lord, drawing others to think of Him and bless His Name.
ONLY a rose tree and bristling with thorn,
Covered with leaves,
Nothing but leaves;
No scented roses its branches adorn,
Oh! how it saddens and grieves:
Why let it grow? It just cumbers the ground,
Barren and fruitless, while others around
Are covered with roses; let’s hew the tree down,
Since from it one nothing receives.
Nay, but, dear friend, let us leave it alone,
One other year,
Only a year, —
Then on the boughs that so fruitless have grown
Beautiful flowers may appear
Life through its branches by that time may flow,
Sweet fragrant roses may blossom and grow,
Roses as pure, and as white as the snow.
Bringing us comfort and cheer.
Round went the year and the summer-time came,
Sunshine and shower,
Fresh, gentle shower,
Making the trees push their leaves out again.
Clothing with beauty the flower.
Sweet little rose-bush, so brilliant with green.
Hung on its branches in clusters are seen,
Roses, where never before they had been.
Now is its triumphant hour.
Only a sinner, afar off from God,
Burdened with care,
Worry and care;
Stagg’ring on under sin’s heavy load,
On to an endless despair;
Nothing of fragrance thy life-time doth yield,
‘Gainst thy Creator thy heart thou hast steeled,
Oft in sin’s ways thou hast gone far afield,
Ways that are fruitless and bare.
Come then to Jesus the Saviour of men,
He’ll give thee rest,
Pardon and rest;
No more thy life shall be fruitless and vain,
He’ll make thee happy and blest;
Garlands of beauty thy life shall adorn,
Fragrant and sweet as the dew of the morn,
To give you the flowers, He was crown’d with the thorn;
Oh! come, ‘tis His loving request.
He bore the Judgment on Calvary’s Tree,
Suffered alone,
Bore it alone;
Paid all sin’s debt that thou mightest go free,
Died for thy guilt to atone;
Went unto Death ‘neath our sin’s heavy load,
“Just for the unjust,” to bring us to God;
Sinner, afar and astray on life’s road,
Hark, He is calling thee, “COME!”
Petros.