My Love

My Love is like a rose
Whose rich perfume
Through all the garden flows,
And in His bloom
I'll deck myself, when I would glorious be,
Fit to sit down, and feast, my God, with Thee!

My Love is like a lily
In the vale,
And when the night is stilly,
And the gale
Is soft and fresh, He doth upon it move,
And comes to me, and, voiceless, whispers— Love.

My Love is like a vine,
Beneath whose shade
This weary heart of mine,
In quiet laid,
Finds soft repose, and, for its life divine,
From juicy clusters drinks immortal wine.

Such is my glorious Love '
Divinely fair!
All other loves above
Beyond compare:
And all my life and soul to Him I owe,
He in His tender greatness loves me so.

And with Him I will talk,
And never tire,
And near Him I will walk,
And my desire
Shall be to Him, and all His Love to me
Shall be the crown of my felicity.

O Love divinely sweet!
In Thee I live!
In Thee all blessings meet
Which Heav'n can give;
Who wants Thee all wants, though untold his store;

Who has Thee lives to God for evermore.
"Whom Thou lovest, Lord, he's sick;"
This they said, and said no more; —
Fear had added — " O, be quick!"
Love had cried — " Restore! restore!"

Faith can only look above,
Tell its sorrow, plead His Love.
Jesus heard, and linger'd there
Two long days in that same place;
Seem'd unheedful of their prayer,
Sent no token of His Grace;

But, though outwardly unmoved,
All the while He linger'd — loved.
Then He rose in grief profound,
And, with solemn accents slow,
His disciples, gather'd round,
Thus address'd He: " Let us go, —

He we love now slumbers deep, —
Go and wake him out of sleep!"
Answerd His disciples back,
Sad, though why they could not tell i
'Lord, what further doth he lack?
If he sleep he will do well."

Then the gentle Saviour said
To them plainly — " He is dead."
Stately in her frenzied woe
Rose up one her Lord to meet,
Sorrow-crush'd, and bended low,
Wept the other at His feet.

One must something do, or die;
Still the other's agony.
"If Thou hadst been here to spare,
Lord, my brother had not died.'"
"I am glad I was not there,"
Jesus had before replied.

Death would not have dared the strife,
Now he trembles before Life.
On they went, a weeping throng,
Follow'd He where others led,
And His spirit in Him Strong
Groaned and was troubled:

Asking softly, " Where is he?
They replying, " Come and see!"
Drawing near the lonely grave,
Troubled sore at their distress;
Mighty in His power to save,

Mightier in His tenderness,
God — to wake the dead who slept;
Man— to comfort, — " Jesus wept."
"How He loved him!" spake they kind.
Yet in doubting wonder say, —
"Could not He who heal'd the blind

Keep the touch of death away?"
Then, as if in deeper pain,
The Great Suff'rer groan'd again.
By the silent grave He stands,
Praying for His people's sake,
Then, with lifted voice, commands

From afar the dead to wake;
Heard the soul in its repose,
And its sleeping dust arose,
Back from life, with falt'ring tread,
Groping on through darkness slow,
Bound with grave-clothes; — Jesus said,

"Loose him now, and let him go."
Then the multitude adored
Jesus the life-giving Lord.