The Rose

For my daughter, who has been to Hell

A delicate crimson rose endures

The snow and winds of winter's grasp

And closes up and wilts a while

Until Summer sun it finds at last

In this world of unrighteousness

Where brutes and ogres' egos roam

And selfishness abounds like weeds

She exists in shattered form

With silent seething disilusion

And saddened, unrequited love

Maddened by the unjust acts

of those who advertized their “love”

A vain and self-indulgent god

Did sieze himself her mind and oath

Presiding as the demons do

In hidden acts pronounced as gross

Enduring the madness of matriarchs

And the hostility of tribal gang

Where smiles of familial welcoming

Turned into savage, jealous fangs

Yet though the bitterness seeps through

And anger permeates her skin

Sweet dignity she still retains

And devotion stll resides within

Her adornment incorruptible

Her spirit mild and resolute

Did not return evil for evil

But stood and conquered it with good

Happy is she who has endured

And in mild subjection did remain

Showing honour to a painful degree

To bring honour to Jehovah's name

And though she stumbled in despair

Yet withstood for righteous sake

Her loyalty, the beast could not sever

Nor divine concsience could he break

For like the rose at winter's end

That bears a striking sharpened thorn

Her petals still are soft and pure

And her soul with beauty still adorned

For the righteous one who sees all things

And whose love she yet retains

Will never for eternity forget

The love she showed for his great name

And should she reach out and beseech

And trust his salvation once again

She would know with certainty

He has never let go her hand