A cloistered garden was the place
Where Mary grew, God's perfect flower;
One, only one, discerned her grace,
And visited her bower.
God's choice was his; by love made strong
To guard the Mother of the King;
No heart, save hers, had e'er a song
So sweet as his to sing.
Yet lives there on the sacred page
No record of a word from him;
God's Ark he guards, a silent sage,
Pure as the Cherubim.
But sweeter than the sweetest word
Recorded of the wise and good,
His silence is a music heard
On high, and understood.
Blessed are all who take their part
Amid the carol-singing throng;
Thrice blest the meditative heart
Whose silence is a song.