Roses

We have a tradition in our church on Good Friday. As we go into church, each person is given a red rose. A large wooden cross is put in the centre at the front of the church. At the end of the service there is silence. People are left to go up and kneel before the cross in silent prayer, as they are ready, and at the conclusion of their prayers, throw their rose at the foot of the cross as an act of rededication.



ROSES

They lie there, on the floor,
Red as my trampled heart.
Yet each one, perfect in beauty,
Offering back it’s fragrance to its Maker:
Can a yielded heart be fragrant too?

He lies there, in the empty coffin
He who emptied the tomb
And will fill my empty heart.
He has left His beauty now,
The last part lies scattered,
No beauty, no majesty to draw our eyes.

And I lie here, inwardly,
Acknowledging my brokenness,
Feeling betrayal, scorn,
And the refting of my tattered heart.
How shall I hold Him
When my self is full of holes?

No offering is wasted.
Each one is gathered up
Precious and lovely.
He can count all His bones.
There is water for the thirsty
Peace for the broken
Hands that will gather and hold
And a gate is swung wide open to the Father’s heart.

His coffin
Not mine.
Because he claimed it
And in doing so, claimed me.