THERE is a plant in favor,
An unpretending tree,
Which yields a pleasing savor,
As sweet as scent can be:
Though some in fame stand higher,
The garden this adorns;
‘Tis fitly nam’d Sweet Brier,
A Rose-tree fene’d with thorns.
An emblem ‘tis of Pleasure,
Which blooms and fades below,
Esteem’d beyond its measure,
For ‘tie but scent and show.
If we unwisely clasp it,
We feel its prickly stings;
It withers, if we grasp it,
Like all such fragile things.
Upon the stem of sorrow
Our sweetest joys arise;
We weep a night — tomorrow
Brings glad and glist’ning eyes:
More sweet than scented Brier
Is grief, from God receiv’d;
To singing, lifts the sigher,
To blessing, the bereaved.
When we have all ascended
With Christ, the Lord, to dwell,
Our sorrows will be ended,
Our bliss all thought excel:
The Tree of Life forever
God’s paradise adorns;
There sin can enter never,
And Roses have no thorns.
T.