It's springtime once more, which brings me to a wonderful time of year in which tiny brave shoots of green rise from the grave of winter's earth. And on many days my hands are creased with mulch and my fingernails are manicured with half moons of good and honest dirt.
As the world comes alive again, I am reminded of the one who not only authored such beauty but who shows me that new life always emerges from the dark places. The flowers mirror the truth of the resurrection to a world simply covered in the fingerprints of a loving God who clears away the cobwebs and dry dead-fall, nourishing and pruning both the garden of my hands and the thirsty soil of my wayward heart.
What is a flower? What’s in a name?
What grows a stem either terrible or tame?
Is a rose just a bud bearing scent so sweet,
Or bloody where York and Lancaster meet?
Consider the lilies—be they maidens or flowers?
Perhaps trees where fairies dance by the hour.
But come Easter morning, white stars bursting ‘round,
In place of palm leaves on past Sunday’s ground.
Hosanna! Hallelujah! He is risen, our King.
Rejoice and be glad, let all voices sing.
And Solomon, king-wise, in his glory days,
Was not clothed as these under gentle sunrays.
Tulips cup the essence of new,
Harsh winter beds now anointed with dew.
Gray April rains then slowly give way,
Oh those violets and daffodils dancing in May.
King’s robe, king’s gold, that last of fresh spring,
Heralds to summer in the grass glistening.
Splashes of joy made of color set free,
Melodies of bare feet, of grass, and of trees.
Sunflowers, freesia, chrysanthemums all,
Iris, hydrangea, untouched by the fall.
Blossoms unfold in a blushing oath,
Vowing their fruits and berries in growth.
Flowers, oh flowers, in earth under sky,
Tread the dance of beauty, creation’s cry!
Humble violets and Orchids fair,
Wild columbines in the mountains rare.
Petals strewn down a wedding aisle,
Bouquets for love traveling o’er the miles.
With candy and cards gently pleading “Be Mine,”
A crimson wish for a valentine.
But is a rose still a rose by another name?
Its scent would remain as Shakespeare would claim.
Yet the grace of the flower in her grass-slippered feet,
Beckons beyond what the eye can meet.
Invites you into a union with grace,
To know the composer of beauty, to look on His face.
A fierce deep red for love so wild,
Red for a people reconciled.
A pure linen petal, so tender and white,
For hearts of the cleansed now walking in light.
Brave blooming yellow, denouncing the dark.
Grace drops of blue in a world gray-stark.
Creation cries out, are you listening?
Do you hear the song that the flowers sing?
Proclaiming the victory over shadow and death,
Dispelling decay with sweet cleansing breath.
Crescendo of color, the symphony of love,
To the earth below from heaven above.
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