Beside a cottage door it grows,
The loveliest, daintiest flower that blows,
A sweetbrier rose.
At dewy morn or twilight’s close,
The rarest perfume from it flows,
This strange wild rose.
But when the raindrops on it beat,
Ah, then, its odors grow more sweet,
About my feet.
Often with loving tenderness,
Its soft green leaves I gently press,
In sweet caress.
A still more wondrous fragrance flows,
The more my fingers close
And crush the rose.
Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so
Its perfume when strong winds blow,
The sweeter flow.
And should it be Your blessed will,
With crushing grief my soul to fill,
Press harder still.
And while its dying fragrance flows
I’ll whisper low, ‘He loves and knows
His crushed brier rose.’
—Frederick William Robertson
