Rose

Out on the old highway it grows,
The wayside rose,
Rooted deep in the hard dry ground,
Swathed in the weeds that crowd it round,
Tended by naught but the rain and sun,
Its loveliness hidden, praised by none,
Contented, it blooms for the One who knows
Why it is there, This wayside rose.
Beaten by every wind that blows,
This wayside rose,
Asking not for a better place,
Where to unfold with ease and grace,
Wasting no time with excuses vain,
It brightens the weed-filled dusty lane,
An exquisite flower that blooms and grows,
Perfect for Him, This wayside rose.

 --Sarah Wilson Middleton, ARA 1926