The White Rose

One silent evening, towards Summer’s close,
I walked alone through darkening fields,
Saw by chance, hidden by trees
A group of bushes, gnarled and thorned,
But looking closer, was pleased to see,
On each thorned branch rested a rose.

Several rose-trees together growing,
One flowering blood-red, another gold,
But the one upon which I rested my sight:
The rose of shimmering, pure white.
Reflecting in it’s simple hue,
All colours bound and intertwined,
Symbolic of every virtue:
A rose of white, for purity,
For courage and eternal love,
Reverence and humility.

I heard as though it spoke to me,
And knew then, what I ought to be.
I shed a tear for my past sins,
Asked our Lord from me to take,
The thorns ’round my soul,
Their roots to break.

Long stood I there in fading light,
Pondering over this simple flower.
A gift from God, precious and sweet,
Growing from the ground at my feet.
Breaking rock, barren and dry,
Reaching out to sun and sky,
Growing, climbing towards God’s throne,
Doing that which His men will not,
Living always, Heaven to own,
While His great love, we all forgot.

It still is wonderous to me,
That man to make a choice is free;
That we alone, of all God’s creatures,
Have ever sinned and shunned His love;
That I see proof of Virtue’s power,
By looking at this little flower.