A Thought for the Ninth of Ab

SWINGING low by a garden wall

A flower bent its head,

Only a few its beauty knew,

And the fragrance sweet it shed.

But a wind blew rough on the blossom rare,

And its seeds were scattered wide,

Now one finds its bloom, where’er there’s room

On the great green countryside!

So stood the shrine on Zion’s hill,

For Truth’s Temple fair,

But all too few its beauty knew—

Men knew not Truth dwelt there.

But came the foe like shattering storm,

And Temple walls laid low,

’Neath weeping skies the ruin lies

’Mid wails of mortal woe.

But like windblown blossom then

The precious seeds were blown,

And Truth spread wide on every side

Where’er the seeds were sown!