  By B. W. There is grace in the leaves of the unfolding rose, In the calm of the floating swan, In the bend of a river that swiftly flows, And the bridge of a single span. There is grace in the sweep of a midnight sky, In the bounds of a wild gazelle, In the measures of music rolling by, And the tale which the poets tell. There is grace in the round of that baby’s arm; In the form that is bending to kiss; There is grace in all ways that quietly charm And that silently waken bliss. But the grace which most deeply enamors my heart Is the bearing of Jesus to me; —How quietly he with all riches could part, A man and a Savior to be. In him is more fulness of all I call grace, Than the eye or the heart e’er possessed. His knowledge is heaven, wherever the place; His beauty, my quietest rest. decorative line |
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