When thought becomes a desert, scorched and dry,
With no clear streams of love for thirsty sand,
No singing lark will spiral to the sky
And no embroidering blossoms trim the land.
Where selfishness has sapped once-fruitful loam
And spread its cactus to the canyon's brink,
No little dove will light to build its home
And no shy doe will come for food and drink.
But when the barren thought has turned to God,
Who promised water when a drought prevails,
The desert waste will change to verdant sod
And draw glad seekers to its flowered trails.
When Christliness has conquered selfish foes,
Then will the desert blossom as the rose.
