The Passion Flower

by Anne Whitney

The cross, the thorns, the cruel nails again!
Thus opens God's diviner flower of Day
To thee, Flower-giver: was no better way
Found out, whereby thou early should'st obtain,
What others seek through life-long years in vain,
Peace and a large, sweet charity, than this
Which that stern angel points thee to, whose kiss
Of consecration on thy brow is PAIN.
I weep consenting -- knowing well that so
God tempers to a more than mortal fineness
O Friend, so high in sorrow -- be not mindless
I keep for thee a heart-warm rest below;
With hopes and human yearnings, wilt thou know?
It shall not mar thy strength or thy divineness.