Ere our first parents fell, the ground
All beauty and abundance crowned;
But now the soil our labour needs,—
The earth produces thorns and weeds.
And trials on our pathway grow,
The prickly care, the stinging woe,
How oft the wounded spirit bleeds,—
Our life produces thorns and weeds.
But—worse than all—we find within,
The poisoned roots of pride and sin,
From them our misery proceeds,—
The heart produces thorns and weeds.
But, Lord, Thou bidst Thy sunbeams glow,
Thy gentle raindrops fall below;
When industry has dressed the bowers,
The earth produces fruits and flowers.
So when Thy love its radiance lends,
Thy Spirit like the dew descends,
When Faith, and Hope, and Peace are ours,
Our life produces fruits and flowers.
Oh! lead us to that blissful shore,
Where thorns and weeds are known no more,
Where Death can never reach the bowers,
To blast the fruit or blight the flowers!