LOVE was my flower, and before He came— "Master, there was a garden where it grew Rank, with the colour of a crimson flame, Thy flower too, but knowing not its name Nor yet that it was Thine, I did not spare But 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 flower I stood, when suddenly the hour Struck for me, And straight I came and wound about Thy Feet The strands of shame Twined with those broken buds: till lo, more sweet, More red, yet still the same, Bright burning blossoms sprang around Thy brow Beneath the thorns (I saw, I know not how, The crown which Thou wast afterward to wear On 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 seek Thee, first, I came in those grey hours Of the Great Dawn, and knew Thee not till Thou didst speak My name, that 'Mary' like a flash of light Shot from Thy lips. Thou wast 'the gardener' too, And then I knew That evermore our flowers, Thine, Lord, and mine, shall be a burning white."
