The Mills of God grind slowly,*
But they grind exceeding small—
So soft and slow the great wheels go
They scarcely move at all;
But the souls of men fall into them
And are powdered into dust,
And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers—
Love, Hope, Trust.

Most wondrous their upspringing,
In the dust of the grinding mills,
And rare beyond the telling
The fragrance each distils.
Some grow up tall and stately,
And some grow sweet and small,
But Life out of Death is in each one—
With purpose grow they all.

For that dust is God’s own garden,
And the Lord Christ tends it fair,
With oh, such loving kindliness!
And oh, such patient care!
In sorrow the seeds are planted,
They are watered with bitter tears,
But their roots strike down to the water-springs
And the sources of the years.

These flowers of Christ’s own providence,
They wither not nor die,
But flourish fair, and fairer still,
Through all eternity.
In the dust of the mills and in travail
The amaranth seeds are sown,
But the flowers in their full beauty climb
The pillars of the throne.

William Arthur Dunkerley
Bees in Amber, 1913