A towering flower, like a tree in beauty but emanating strangeness – A gaseous expanse of green and black, with purple hues. Vines sprung from that hulky shoot, Springing like ringing bells proclaiming a claim on the territory of the land. God’s sovereign hand handled that plant – a careful garden-tender, Tenderly effecting affection from its leaves to its rooty depths and meaty core.
Boring was never the word of life, For the birds of strife pecked and bit, flapped and hit, Hinting at the fragility of the flower. But showers were glinting, nourishing despite the birds’ agility, And happily the roots crept out their crawling claws, Sprawling and clawing up for themselves the life-giving fluid with hottest pursuit.
Renewed, the plant’s vines sprang into action, A million ropes flying in every direction, Attacking and defending against the feathery onslaught. And just at the point when weakness was fraught, Strength was frothier and hope so bold, Nobly to fight in the heat of the cold. And coldness ceased to be, Being borne out by the sun’s divine rays – Divine by nature of that Divinity Which without delay commanded them to be.
Yet victory one day did not change the past. And the past did not help the present bent of toil, Nor sway uncertainties of what was to come. Interlocking logs of torment, Burrowing deep into the vast earthen soil – That’s what the towering flower’s roots had become – A cumbersome, burdensome, somber reminder Of the plant’s persistent requirement of food. What time was there to eat? What time to rest from the pressures Poundingly surging, endlessly burning away Every ebbing ounce of life from the frail flower’s heart?
Yet it was this draining of the heart – a directed release – That the Gardener desired – that excellent Divinity. It was every sporadic cell, Squirming and coursing the flower’s massive hull, That He desperately wanted to have for Himself – And He solely.
So He started a mission, A vision of change, Inciting a failure And thickening pain, That pain may prove sensible, Stirring the mind, Just like a mixture That mixes to find A new identity, A cause once thought lost – The tables turned And the Jordan crossed.
That pain imposed on the flower was great, But greatness was worth the immeasurable drain, And painful thoughts paved the way For resplendent riches on the final day. Not only that, but daily gain, A life renewed, newly saved – Not saved from hell but from hell’s subtle grip, A grip on the mind, a grip on the neck, Thoughts so logical, thoughts seemingly true, But only excuses why not to pursue The perfection held by the Gardener’s pure hands, A love sincere, love without demands, Unexpected turns, unforeseeable plans, All told, and retold (O unhearing ears!) All told, and retold, Until finally, The flower heard And learned to be bold.
Do not despise failures, For they are the seeds of change.