THE TINY LITTLE ROSE
The tiny little rose stood placidly alone
Its petals moist from the water I gave.
And I love that rose, not because it’s mine,
It’s the radiant beauty in which I bathe.
It’s tiny, frail, and tender to the touch,
The fragrance charms the most desolate nose.
And oh how I love that beautiful plant,
My tiny, darling little rose.
As I awoke one morn and searched the air,
No fragrance could I detect.
I charged to the bush as my heart seemed to stop,
My rose was yellowing, its leaves so narrow.
I charged to the faucet and palmed some water
And quickly poured it around the wilting roots.
The minutes raced by as I earnestly prayed.
God spare my first and only precious flower.
The sun began shining on the frail, wilted stem,
The petals which now lay strewn on the ground.
I wanted to cry but the numbness wouldn’t leave,
No longer would my special fragrance be around.
Perhaps I can remember that alluring smell,
Or see the beauty before my eyes,
No it’s very hard to recall the special things,
When something very special, very near dies….
If God keeps flowers before his holy throne,
I know mine will be atop the bouquet.
It was special, so very special to me you see,
And I’ll be looking forward to seeing it one day.
written by Charles wells
 
 
 
 
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