Trust

I am thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day; beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall. Yet have I not enough In that brief day of mine? The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff The sun pours out like wine. Behold, this is my crown; Love will not let me be; Love holds me here; Love cuts me down; And it is well with me. Lord, Love, keep it but so; Thy purpose is full plain; I die that after I may grow As tall, as sweet again.