The bushes from which the spice of meekness was obtained, clothed the slopes almost from top to bottom. They were unlike any of the spice trees elsewhere. They reminded Grace and Glory of the little thorn tree which had so wonderfully sweetened the bitter waters of the spring of Marah on her way up to the High Places, of which she had drunk when she knelt and accepted willingly that which was to break her heart. Indeed, the King told her, when she mentioned this, that the thorn tree growing beside that spring was a species of myrrh tree and had been transplanted from the mountain on which they stood, and planted on those far lower slopes where, although it could only live in a stunted and imperfect form, it yet contained the same precious spice which sweetened the unpalatable and bitter waters of the spring.

She noticed that all the bushes growing here in their native element were low and were covered with sharp thorns and possessed very scanty foliage. At this season of the year, however, all the bushes were in bud, preparing to break forth into blossom. The King told her that in a little while they would all be completely covered with flowers. He promised to bring her to the Mountain again at the time of blossom, and then the whole place would glow as though garbed in a royal crimson robe.

At the moment, however, just as the buds were beginning to appear at the tip of each long, sharp thorn, a group of the King’s workmen were busy among the bushes, making incisions in each little tree trunk from which would “bleed” the precious gum-resin of meekness into vessels carefully placed to receive it. Before the trees could bloom in all their glory they must offer themselves and their precious inner treasure of fragrant resin, to all who cared to gather it. They bared themselves to the sharp knife, that through the incisions thus made they might empty themselves in glad self-giving and thanksgiving.

As they worked with their knives, making incisions in all the trees, the King’s servants sang this song:

Do not fear the cutting knife,

Do not shrink in pain,

Let the red drops of thy life

Fall like bleeding rain.

That which thou to death dost give

Is the seed which yet shall live.

Do not fear the winter’s breath,

Let the seed drop to the earth,

Everything laid down to death

Waits a resurrection birth.

Let the flower drop; on the thorn

Fairer glories shall be born.

Do not try to hold life’s joys,

Or the past’s years’ golden store,

Love it is Who thus destroys,

To make room for so much more.

Love it is, with radiant face,

Leading to a wealthier place.

Do not let self-pity bleed

Bitterness, nor fierce regret.

These are worms which kill the seed,

And sad misery beget.

With a willing heart let go,