SWEET Flower! Thy simple charms have won
For thee a name of praise;
Thou lowly image of the Sun,
Resemblance of his rays.
Thou openest when at morn he gleams,
Rejoicing ‘neath his glowing beams,
Till ev’ning spreads her haze;
When thou, no longer in the light,
Dost close thyself in shades of night.
A language, thou dolt plainly speak,
My erring heart to guide;
That as my Saviour’s face I seek,
And in His love abide,
So I receive His living rays,
Reflecting Him unto His praise,
Who for my sins has died;
But as I from His presence flee,
Then self, not Christ, is seen in me.
T.