Speaks A Wilted Rose

The fairest day of all that's ever been
Will be when You that day within me see
A fairest rose not blemished by a sin
And not in spring but winter it will be.

But You are far away in sacred poise;
Yourself that day, when look at me condemn,
Perhaps You'll see no rose your eye enjoys
Since wilted then and hanging on its stem.

But birds I hear amongst the leafy trees,
You've made them sing with your forgotten voice
And when it swells each time in melodies,
The songs are yours in which I do rejoice.

Though You have risen, midst all wonders live,
 And then, besides, to them all substance give.