by: Mary Dow Brine
And the flowers preached their sermon
By the wayside--sweet and fair,
Breathing out their subtle fragrance
On the Sabbath morning air.
All above the skies were tender,
Robed in shade of softest blue;
All below the fields were radiant,
Clothed in summer's fairest hue.
And a sacred peace seemed brooding
Over nature's gentle face;
Gone, the scars of week-day labor,
Gone, and left no sign nor trace.
Sabbath stillness reigned above us,
On the calm and restful day,
As the flowers preached their sermon
All along the wild-wood way.
Silent eloquence, yet speaking
With a truth that entered in
Human hearts long careless, striving
All too lightly against sin:
Opening eyes perchance long blinded
To the gifts of Heaven's love,
Till our thoughts at last were lifted
In the homage due above.
And we echoed then the praises
Breathed upon the summer air,
Giving glory to our Maker,
With the wayside flowers fair.
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