A Rose grew in the Garden,
Not Created by my Hand.
Why the Gardener cut it?
Is hard to Understand.
Quietly lying on the ground,
Pedals full, Aroma sweet.
Feel the Pain inside my Heart,
For One, now, resting at my feet.
Strong the urge to bend and pick it up
To Hold it close to me.
Strong the urge to bend and nurture it,
Back to where it use to be.
The warm soft breeze across my feet
Swirls upon the Garden Floor
His Loving Spirit gently lifts the Pedals
Of the One, I did adore.
A barren Stem, now left for me
Brings Sadness to my Heart.
The jagged Thorn left to the Stem
Stings as some poison dart.
Til a Passing of His Spirit
Brushes soft across my face.
And a String of dancing Pedals
Join together, Locked in Place.
Moving upward, ever Skyward,
Riding on the soft Breeze Trail.
And through the empty Greenery.
Precious Memories start to Swell.
The Holy Gardener cut this Flower,
With a Knife which cut Me, too.
But He gave me Special Moments
With this Rose – and where It Grew.
S. A. Collins