A singular rose,
Laid bare on the altar,
Stripped of all impurities
and thorns.
Red,
Bloody as my bleeding heart;
Dark,
Seasoned with age,
But so simple,
Adorning the lonely altar;
Adding nothing, but all.
And Mary:
Love and Pity,
Joyously stretching her hands
Towards the simple
Devotion
Of a rose.
For it was she who pruned the bush,
She who cultivated the soil,
She who labored for such beauty:
Who stripped the thorns
And turned the red blood
White.
Her tears and the tears of her son,
Shared perfectly from each to one,
Gushing forth the blood,
Divinizing what should be good
But's fallen so far to the ground
It's impossible to distinguish from the mud.
From brown to red to white,
of which the world claims the reverse.
Mother against the world,
Son against the world,
Raise me higher,
Grow me in virtue and let me die
Nestled in the sweet arms
of my Mother.
-
Author:
Spencer Wilhelm (
Offline) - Published: October 9th, 2025 16:20
- Comment from author about the poem: I do not expect people to get much of this, but it would be too long of a story to explain. Love to hear your thoughts though!
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
You are right in your author note it is a bit obscure
Yeah, if people know they'll know.
The invocation must of sheer necessity stir countless, yet what you intended is blurred by your curious author's note. While the Scriptures were fulfilled, deceivers have subtly raised an ancient religion to the fore and the blind masses render allegiance. Who was given remains a virtual mystery by decree, leaving fewer enlightened than not. Beautifully rendered with excellent imagery and a deeply haunting poignancy. Thank you for sharing. [If the Mennonites teach the doctrine given in your lines, they are further from the truth than I realized.]
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