LOVE was my flower, and before He came—"Master, there was a garden where it grewRank, with the colour of a crimson flame,Thy flower too, but knowing not its nameNor yet that it was Thine, I did not spareBut 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 flowerI stood, when suddenly the hourStruck for me,And straight I came and wound about Thy FeetThe strands of shameTwined with those broken buds: till lo, more sweet,More red, yet still the same,Bright burning blossoms sprang around Thy browBeneath the thorns (I saw, I know not how,The crown which Thou wast afterward to wearOn 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 seekThee, first, I came in those grey hoursOf the Great Dawn, and knew Thee not till Thou didst speakMy name, that 'Mary' like a flash of lightShot from Thy lips. Thou wast 'the gardener' too,And then I knewThat evermore our flowers,Thine, Lord, and mine, shall be a burning white."
