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The Church.
by Margaret Steele AndersonStill, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices,
My Lord, my Lord!
Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices,
My Lord!
White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands, the close
Breathes with thy rose!
Wild feet, mad feet, thy lovely paths have beaten,
My Lord, my Lord!
And sinful lips thy holy fruits have eaten,
My Lord!
Strange hands have tended me and tended ill, yet thou
Lovest me, now!
So to thy feet I offer my waste places.
My Lord, my Lord!
walk them till they spring in verdant graces,
My Lord!
With new trees plant, and from the fruits divine
Tread out thy wine!