Who Mourns a Rose
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Why does a rose of beauty rare,
Spring forth to glorious birth,
And for a season short at best,
Fall back into the earth.
It came to give to love to live,
Then in a day to die,
We morn the sinners plight of choice,
For the rose no one cries.
Is innocence so cheap a gift,
That it's so easily spared,
Or is a world so blind to truth,
That no one seems to care.
The world seems to stop to morn,
When the wicked fall to death,
But seemly no one takes a pause,
When a rose is lain to rest.
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