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Beside my cottage door it grows,

The loveliest, daintiest flower that blows,

A sweet briar rose.

At dewy mourn or twilight’s close,

The rarest perfume from it flows,

This strange wild rose.

But when the rain-drops on it beat,

Ah, then, its odors grow more sweet,

About my feet.

Offtimes with loving tenderness,

Its soft green leaves I gently press,

In sweet caress.

A still more wondrous fragrance flows

The more my fingers close

And crush the rose.

Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so

Its perfume when tempests blow,

The sweeter flow.

And should it be Thy blessed will,

With crushing grief my soul to fill,

Press harder still.

And while its dying fragrance flows

I’ll whisper low, He loves me and knows

His crushed briar rose.

                                            author unknown to me..

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