On a bleak and barren boulder,
With no branches to enfold her,
No soft earth to touch her kindly, or support the fragile form,—
Lives a tender little flower,
All unharmed amid the power
Of the crushing avalanches and the awful thunder storm.
There she blossoms all securely,
Leads her life of worship purely,
Nor desires the luring valleys or the richer, safer land.
Snow and sunshine are her treasure,
And her trembling is of pleasure,
For our Father holds her gently "in the hollow of His hand."
Mortals, hearken to her singing.
Hear! The words are downward winging,
As her blue and rosy petals to the breezes are unfurled:
"Be ye simple and confiding,
E'er in purity abiding,
And to know your God, come higher. Ye must dwell above the world."
