Lo ! through that grove, when twilight glows,
With wandering step the Saviour goes,
His features pale and wan ;
'Twas grateful when the soft moss met
So closely round His bleeding feet
That still must journey on.
Late had he left the desert land
Where fiercely burned the sun and sand —
The soft moss cooled His heat ;
Then spake the Saviour, " From above
On thee hath been bestowed such love,
So earnest, tender, great !
" In the slight form assigned to thee
Was ever eye too blind to see
The Maker's power and grace ?
Thou little plant so lightly prized,
Thee hath thy Father not despised.
Be patient in thy place ! "