1. There the verdure fadeth never, and the odors never die;
There beneath unwilting blossoms, piercing thorns may never lie;
Music, softer and diviner, than from earthly lyres has rolled,
Through angelic utterance breaketh, and from quivering chords of gold.
2. Like a dove of snowy plumage, brooding on her leafy nest,
Peace in sacred beauty resteth, deep in every saintly breast;
Hope hath found her dazzling splendor, of her grandest day outshone,
While through every bosom thrilleth, joy that sense hath never known.
3. Tears that trembled on the lashes in affliction’s keenest hours,
Were as dews of summer evenings on the thirsty lips of flowers;
Gleaming crowns adorn each forehead by the thorns of sorrow torn,
And he wears the whitest raiment who the heaviest cross hath borne.
– Anonymous (printed in an early Advent Review magazine)
