On Suffering

I beheld a single rose, yet in its infancy;

Its clothing was as a robe of green.

I watched as it began to awaken;

To slowly stretch forth as from a fitful sleep.

I witnessed the emerging of life:

There was beauty within, would soon be revealed.

I saw tender petals begin to unfold.

From its heart came forth tiny showers of color,

And from the showers came splashes of light.

And finally it was open in a display of radiance and splendor!

My eyes were as opened gates to permit its beauty to enter.

Leaning closely, I breathed in the lingering fragrance.

I dared to touch the soft, velvety petals.

To my heart it spoke of warmth and of joy.

I reached forth my hand, taking hold of the stem.

I drew back in pain; sharp thorns having pricked my fingers.

Drops of blood appeared from those places pierced.

How, O how, I cried, can anything of such beauty

Likewise be the bearer of such pain?

And what shall be my response to such things:

Shall I now look upon the rose in a fit of anger;

Shall I renounce its beauty and splendor?

Are my eyes to look upon it in contempt;

Am I to regard it as horrid and ugly?

Is its fragrance now to become a stench in my nostrils;

Shall I withdraw from it forever?

O God, from Thy Presence would I seek wisdom:

When from within the roses that you have planted in

The garden of my heart, I am pricked by the thorns:

Help me, O Lord, amidst the pain and the suffering,

To remember the rose in its infancy; the opening of its petals;

To yet rejoice in its beauty, to lean near to smell its fragrance;

For Thou O God, hast made both rose and thorn,

That they, through my life, may glorify you.