Lizette Woodworth Reese

Trust

I am thy grass, O Lord!
    I grow up sweet and tall
But for a day; beneath Thy sword
    To lie at evenfall.

Yet have I not enough
    In that brief day of mine?
The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff
    The sun pours out like wine.

Behold, this is my crown;
    Love will not let me be;
Love holds me here; Love cuts me down;
    And it is well with me.

Lord, Love, keep it but so;
    Thy purpose is full plain;
I die that after I may grow
    As tall, as sweet again.