By a Lily

My soul knew Gethsemane's sorrow:

My son, grown to manhood, was killed.

My song and my laughter were silenced;

I wept for his dreams unfulfilled.

Then I entered my beautiful garden

And knelt by a lily to pray,

And the infinite peace of the Master

Drove bitter despairing away;

For the Lily had lived through the winter,

Not dead but hidden from view--

The Master speaks in a garden,

My son was living, I knew.