She wept over the miniscule cut
on the tip of her finger. Lamenting that her life
was ebbing away within a tiny droplet of blood.
It fell bright upon a rose, in a pale shade of pink.
Boldly the Angel spoke,
“What you think is true, blood is life and its loss is death.
Do you think your life is waning in the pool of this tiny droplet?
‘Tis a blighted thought, my child.”
“I have bowed before the cross of the “Rose of Sharon;”
Where pints of blood, splashed on me.
It laid me prostrate upon my face; moreover,
you cry from a tiny prick? Cut the rose, fragrant and pink
And lay it at the altar of sacrifice.”
“Your countenance dims in the face of a miniscule slice.
What if you were truly pierced?
So my child I say, you can grieve
that the rose has a thorn or choose to rejoice,
that the thorn has a rose.”