Our Rose

As beauty ripens, Must death invade?

As beauty ripens, Must death invade?
The grasses wither; The flower fade?

The Lord has taken Our rose away;
‘Twas He who gave it, We can’t say Nay.

And memory hallows Her lingering scent
That sweetly eases Our sore lament.

The pain of parting Was not our choice,
But that we knew her We still rejoice.

Our rose so fragrant Who left behind
The lovely savour Of Christ’s own mind;

Our rose, so gentle, So loved, so sweet,
Will make our Savior An offering meet.

Though tears and sorrow Surround her grave,
We thank Him deeply For what He gave.

Nita Brainard