Sacrament Truth

There is a sorrow place,
Where flowers daily die,
Ever ground into the peat —
Ever trodden under feet.

There is a grief in this,
Yea mourn the floral hues —
Sallow — as they are lost,
Blossoms fade to dross.

There is the sacrament,
Whence each death is life,
Petals ground as trod upon,
Reborn — a new spring dawn.

There is a joyous place,
Where the breath of God,
Exhales pollen o'er fields,
And soils rejoice in yields,

Of blossoms,
Of beauty,
Of truth.