I sit here, just picking away.
Over and over I question they.
Waisting all my hours away
With pretty picking flowers
I ask them quite repeatedly
"Oh does he really love me?"
I pick and pull and tear at these
Pretty picking flowers.
Is it true? Is it so?
Or do I need to let him go?
What do you really know?
You silly little flowers!
I have become just like you.
My very core I've been picked to.
My heart broke as petals flew.
A broken little flower
Then a prince came sweeping in,
As I sat all bare and broken.
Yet He loved me even then
He saw a precious flower.
Jesus spoke with love for me.
"My darling is a white Lily"
He took the torn and wounded me,
And restored this broken flower.
He spoke to me with gentle tone,
And showed me love I've never known.
He watered me and now I've grown
Into His precious flower.
By my side He'll always be.
I'll never doubt His love for me.
So I'll no longer question thee.
You pretty picking flowers
This poem was a finalist in the April 2014 poetry contest