It is a hard rain that comes and jostles and tosses
A lily among thorns
The soft white flesh slowly and slightly closes
Protecting the sanctity of life
But it drinks still a cup of raindrops
The flower sips
The ruckus continues, windy and wounding
And the delicacy is bent
The miniature season bows it lowly
It trusts its beauty to its Maker
And it rests its survival in His hand
How I long for Your arrival!
To the scene of my waiting days!
She is a lily in a garden always pouring out Her grace
The rains that make Her whither and sprout
Also water many thorns
The tearing feeling of their closeness
Is a threat She matures among
But when the Sun is high ascending at the noonday
She boldly and brilliantly forms a prayer
Her regal crown is lifted upward
Her petals unfurl before His face
He has come to be Her countenance bearer
She drinks His peace
Seasons of sunlights sweet sanctuary
The lily recovers openness
There is a time for all of these trials and delights
And Her Maker knows Her frame
She is only but a created floral figure
A beautifully clothed lily of the field
Not unnoticed by His protective and provisional mercies
Now. ….Are You not more valuable than these?
“Consider the lilies of the field. ….are you now more valuable than they?” Matthew 6:25-34. Trust your Maker.
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