Under the pines, near the murmuring brook,
I know the wild orchids grow,
Fair and pure in their shady nook,
A page in God's own wonderful book
With a message for me to know.
Come in the Spring to that beautiful bower
And pause by the moss and the fern
To study. And know from the little flower
God's promise of hope is ready to shower
On those who will trust and learn.
Over the land, with colors so bright,
Leaves whirl in the chill, fitful breeze.
The gurgling brook, ice-coated and white;
Ferns, mosses and orchids have vanished from sight,
Dead and lost in the Winter's first freeze.
In weakening faith and hopeless despair,
Black winters of woe hold my soul.
For death is the end; and each mortal must share
The fate of the orchids that once blossomed there.
Oblivion marketh the goal.
Hold thy hope, faithless soul, for again in the Spring
Neath the pines, the wild orchids will bloom.
Struggle upward toward God, thy Creator and King.
The Saviour is risen and Nature doth sing,
Christ overcomes death and the tomb!
Joseph Pullman Porter
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