Classic Poem

Poor bleeding hearts though to your garden came,
The dark-robed angel and your bud he called,
Trust Him who sent him—Love is still His name,
Although your flow'ret was so roughly pulled.

Reason would question, where Lord is the love?
Seeing yon prattler on her little bed,
All beauteous and gentle as a dove,
Tossing in anguish her bright golden head.

Faith sees the hieroglyphics, writ by thee
Though it can't read them, yet it knows them right,
We go to Calvary, and there we see,
The heart of love, moving the hand to smite.

Each life vicarious is—so is each death,
Though not as His who for His people died,
Our hearts are hard, before the seed of faith
Can e'er take root, we must be deeply tried.

Our tenderest hopes grow oft round transient things,
In mercy God will chase them from our sight;
Our eyes strain upwards as they take their wings,
Till earth grows dark and heaven alone seems bright.

And this one's death is better than his life,
We loved and lost—they were to us but given,
That our deep love for the frail child of earth,
Might twine on high around the child of heaven.