The faithless rose is fated to forsake
the nightingale for the Maker of roses,
the Maker of nightingales. Such a leap
comes about only in timid, painful increments
here and there – the draw of bodies,
the comely flesh alter
over time
to the sacrosanct allure of human courage,
innate goodness, virtue and fidelity.
Clay upon clay, we play with fire,
explore our capacities, pay the price
for the glamour, the extravagant promises
of our budding, adulterated love
until love becomes purely the only tie that binds.
And then come, o Lord of Love, to wield Your axe!
O child of God, in the hothouse of human love
the heart tends and refines the timorous rose.
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