a flower on a hill

A sterile little flower

Sits on a hill.

No bee to make me "ours,"

No love to hold me still,

No hand to pluck me up;

From the rocks I have grown.

Neither vase nor pot

For me to call "home."

I do not resent

Those flowers down there

With plenty of guests

And love to spare,

For my place is true,

My soul is right.

Through drought, I grew;

For true love, I fight.

Though days go by,

I keep on hopin'.

Though tears I cry,

My heart remains open.

My bud is heavy,

Yet my stalk does not lean,

For no amount of envy

Can turn this rose green.

My Gardener cometh forth

To wipe away my tears.

"Fret not, little bud,

For I placed you here.

With patience and strength,

You outgrew the stones.

Ever-lucky the creature

That will call thee home."

And then, one day,

She came from on high.

'Pon my graceful display

Sits a lovely butterfly.

She drinks of my love,

For my font is deep.

By grace from above,

Her heart I shall keep.