I stooped to raise a flower,
Trampled by unthinking feet.
The blossom, having drunk its fill
Of cooling water sweet—
Oh, flower's gratitude—
Did offer to me all its precious treasure
Of rich perfume,
And lifting up its drooping head the while,
Its petal lips did open in a smile.
Ah, then, if our all too imperfect love
Doth make us stoop to raise the bruised flow'r,
Oh, will not Love raise up the broken-hearted,
Give strength to weary feet,
Hold up the tired hands that droop,
With His consoling power?
