Your Rose

Lord, I would be like Your own sweet Rose when underneath the world's vain rush I have been bruised; a wounded thrush, whose song is trapped within its throat, who cannot lift to voice one note its weary head and sorrow knows. Though I be trampled beneath the throngs of grasping, pleasure seeking souls and waves of pain high in me roll, I would be crushed in silence, deep, that even my inmost soul would keep and whisper not of how was wronged. But ever, as with vengeance black, they tramp the petals, limp and torn, would send forth fragrance, sweet and warm, and bless the feet of that mad crowd, beneath their onslaught remain bowed and by Your love turn hatred back. It was Your wounding, sacred Rose, the fragrance of Your love for me blown by the winds of infamy down from that dark hill, Calvary, that brought Your passion home to me and feeds the flower which in me grows. © 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson