There is a sorrow known only to women. It is a sorrow that only a woman can understand. It is a sorrow that comes from desiring to be loved as Christ loved the Church. That sorrow becomes unbearable, when your petals are crushed in the name of love.
Perchance, of all the stunning and demure flowers in all of God's creation, the rose has long been likened to a woman. Imaginably so, for its beauty, its daintiness, and its fragility.
Maybe, your only flaw was, your need for love and affection. So you cried out, speak to the beauty in me. Speak to the precious gems in me. Speak to the fine and delicate silk in me. Speak to my femininity. Speak to the agonizing throbbing in me. Speak to the frightened little girl in me. Speak to the rosebud in me.
Comfort me. Chase away the shadows and the darkness that would seek to overwhelm and engulf me. Love me as Christ loves the Church.
Cover me. Cover everything the world has uncovered. Cover my weakness. Cover my nakedness. Keep me safe. Be my protector. Be my confidant. Be the lover of my soul, my friend and my provider. Love me as Christ loves the Church.
O Who will cry for the rosebud? Defenseless, the young and tender rosebudstands alone. Facing the howling wind and the bitter cold. Bracing herself against the unkind and brutal elements.
Her leaves bow their foliage, refusing to look heavenward, as if in protest. Her prickly thorns look on in agony, helpless to protect her from the senseless, never ending round, of brutality. Her delicate petals lose their color. Her nectar drains from her rosebud, as if it were drops of blood.
The rosebud stands alone, without a shield without a covering. Too young and too vulnerable to fight. She suffers pain and agony. Her innocencestolen. Her rosebud pierced and unfolded too soon.
Her delicatepetals aretorn and damaged. They glisten in the morning light, as if it were tear drops upon her flora. In their fragile state the petals succumb to the heat and relentless passion of the Sun, and falls to the earth, to an untimely demise, without a sigh.
Speak to me, little torn and tattered rosebud, from the empty recesses of your soul.
Speak to me. Tell me of your sorrow. Tell me of your brokenness. Tell me of your dreams of becoming a rose.
I weep for you. I mingle my tears with your tears. Maybe, our tears will prostrate heaven, and move the heart of God.
I lament infantile years stolen. I weep for innocence lost. I weep for what should have been and never was. I moan for every rosebud whose life came to a heartbreaking end, before they had the chance to become a rose.
O I bewail the interlude of the rosebud. I am overcome with grief. Somebody send for the wailing women. Let us take this sacred opportunity to become priestesses of sorrow where, we with God, can lament the foolishness of human sin.
The strength tobecome a rose, was snatched from your bosom. I weep because not to weep, is to say, it's alright.
I dare not call you back to your miserable existence of torment and pain. I must let you sleep. Baby girl, sweet little rosebud, I dare not awaken you.
Your dreams of being a rose were hampered by too much pain and sorrow. You were pierced too soon. Your petals torn, bruised, and cast upon the ground.
Now, the beauty of the rosebud, her sweet bouquet shall never be admired, held or possessed. The tragedy is, the rosebud can never flourish and become a Rose.
The Rosebud Sleeps. Her dreams and aspirations lay hidden as she slumbers upon her couch. Sleep on baby girl. I will redeem you. I will memorialize you. I will sing for you. I will dance for you. I will speak for you.
Christ shall unfold my petals in its season. I will blossom and bloom. My fragrance and bouquet others shall possess. I will become the rose that you never had the chance to be. For Christ My Lord Will Cover me!
© Copyright 10/10/13 Rev. C. Dianne Williams