A Thought By Abram Joseph Ryan

    The summer rose the sun has flushed
     With crimson glory may be sweet;
    ‘Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed
     Beneath the wind’s and tempest’s feet.

    The rose that waves upon its tree,
     In life sheds perfume all around;
    More sweet the perfume floats to me
     Of roses trampled on the ground.

    The waving rose with every breath
     Scents carelessly the summer air;
    The wounded rose bleeds forth in death
     A sweetness far more rich and rare.

    It is a truth beyond our ken —
     And yet a truth that all may read —
    It is with roses as with men,
     The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

    The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom
     Out of a heart all full of grace,
    Gave never forth its full perfume
     Until the cross became its vase.