I walked the garden of life.
Always stopping to smell the roses.
Often finding more thorns than roses.
As I walked the common road,
I barely saw the small hidden path.
.
The hurried scatter of life.
Fingers bleeding from the thorns.
I moved to head forward following
The path of everyone and everyday.
.
I paused, the soft sound of a lark
Whispering on the winds of promise
Blowing softly on that hidden path.
I turned tired but with guided hope.
I walked the hidden path.
.
I followed the hidden path.
Graced by the silent stillness
Of what life should be.
Blessed by the gentleness of peace.
There it stood so small, so hidden.
.
I knelt down to see it, a bush
So small, so hidden. I would have missed
Small and delicate roses.
Despite memories of thorns past.
I touched, I smelt, I felt no thorns.
.
A hidden path, A life refreshed.
A hidden bush, A hope renewed.
A hidden rose, A faith restored.
In the hidden glen, A dream reborn.
In stillness and grace, Love was born.