Classic Poem

Love was my flower, and before He came—
“Master, there was a garden where it grew
Rank, with the colour of a crimson flame,
Thy flower too, but knowing not its name
Nor yet that it was Thine, I did not spare
But tore and trampled it and stained my hair,
My hands, my lips, with the red petals; see,
Drenched with the blood of Thy poor murdered flower
I stood, when suddenly the hour
Struck for me,
And straight I came and wound about Thy Feet
The strands of shame
Twined with those broken buds: till lo, more sweet,
More red, yet still the same,
Bright burning blossoms sprang around Thy brow
Beneath the thorns (I saw, I know not how,
The crown which Thou wast afterward to wear
On that immortal Tree)
And I went out and found my garden very bare,
But swept and watered it, then followed Thee.

There was another garden where to seek
Thee, first, I came in those grey hours
Of the Great Dawn, and knew Thee not till Thou didst speak
My name, that ‘Mary’ like a flash of light
Shot from Thy lips. Thou wast ‘the gardener’ too,
And then I knew
That evermore our flowers,
Thine, Lord, and mine, shall be a burning white.”