  By HENRY BURTON. Pushing the clods of earth aside, Leaving the dark where foul things hide, Spreading its leaves to the summer sun, Bondage ended, freedom won; So, my soul, like the ivy be, Rise, for the sunshine calls for thee! Climbing up as the seasons go, Looking down upon things below, Twining itself in the branches high, As if the frail thing owned the sky; So, my soul, like the ivy be, Heaven, not earth, is the place for thee. Wrapping itself round the giant oak, Hiding itself from the tempest’s stroke; Strong and brave is the fragile thing, For it knows one secret, how to cling: So, my soul, there’s strength for thee, Hear the Mighty One, “Lean on me!” Green are its leaves when the world is white, For the ivy sings through the frosty night; Keeping the hearts of oak awake, Till the flowers shall bloom and the spring shall break; So, my soul, through the winter’s rain, Sing the sunshine back again. Opening its green and fluttering breast, Giving the timid birds a nest; Coming out from the winter wild, To make a wreath for the Holy Child; So let my life like the ivy be, A help to man and a wreath for Thee! —Good Words. decorative line |
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