Were sown by no kindred hand.
’Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air,
’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there!
But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.
The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown,