THE BURNING BUSH.
IN the tangled, dim old garden,
Where the Frost had traced its name,
I saw one Autumn morning,
A sumac bush aflame;
All its leaves, like burning falchions,
Leaped up in glowing blaze,
And, I thought, the old-time marvel
Is wrought in latter days.
Where the Frost had traced its name,
I saw one Autumn morning,
A sumac bush aflame;
All its leaves, like burning falchions,
Leaped up in glowing blaze,
And, I thought, the old-time marvel
Is wrought in latter days.
Not a fibre curled or shriveled,
No tissue scorched or lost;
Yet it flamed like the fiery pillar
That led old Israel's host;
And a voice like perfume stealing,
Spake clear, but made no sound,
And I knew that it was saying,
"This ground is holy ground."
No tissue scorched or lost;
Yet it flamed like the fiery pillar
That led old Israel's host;
And a voice like perfume stealing,
Spake clear, but made no sound,
And I knew that it was saying,
"This ground is holy ground."
(44)
