The Master’s Garden
By Marguerite McCreary
The Master came to the garden
To pluck the fairest rose.
He passed thru the paths in the garden
The fairest flower he chose.
There low hung the head of the blossoms
That grew within that wall,
For the Master had passed and had taken
The fairest flower of all.
But the Master had use for that flower
So perfect, fragrant, rare
To bloom in his own fairest mansion
And live forever there.
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