Love.

LOVE is the sweetest bud that blows; Its beauty never dies; On earth among the saints it grows, And ripens in the skies.

Pure glowing red and spotless white, Its perfect colors are; In Jesus all its sweets unite, And look divinely fair.

The finest flower that ever blow'd, Open'd on Calvary's tree; When Jesus' blood so freely flow'd, For love of worthless me.

Its deepest hue, its richest smell, No mortal sense can bear; Nor can the tongues of angels tell How bright its colors are.

Earth could not hold so rich a flow'r, Nor half its beauty show; Nor could the world and Satan's pow'r, Confine its sweets below. On Canaan's banks supremely fair, This flow'r of wonders blooms; Transplanted to its native air, And all the shores perfumes.

But not to Canaan's shores confin'd, The seeds that from it blow, Take root within the human mind, And scent the church below.

And soon on yonder banks above, Shall every blossom here, Appear a full ripe flow'r of love, Like Him transplanted there,