My Irish Rose Some days ago, I plucked a rose, Pink, and sweet, as she could be, Who filled the air so fragrantly. She is the only one I chose, Her sisters left upon their tree. I put her in a crystal vase, And added water, that's they key, To keep her fresh and sweet, you see. I put her in an honored place, Where every day she could see me. Tho' captive and removed from home, And even tho' her stem I'd bent, She gave me freely of her scent. Wherever in my house I'd roam, Her loveliness she gladly lent. I watched her age, and felt some guilt, Because in my desires rife, I'd clipped her from the source of life. Soon, I knew, that she would wilt; The victim of a human's knife. But while she stayed with me, I'll say, And glowed with color, just for me, Her sisters all fell from their tree. And she alone filled up my day, With beauty rare as it could be. I find it sad that she must go, Such loveliness not meant to last, That such a beauty cannot last. My time too, will end, I know; I'll be a figure from the past. For someday God will pluck me from This tree of life we treasure so; This life so full of ebb and flow. When someday, He bids me come, I will be ready then to go. I'll keep on living in some place, No longer man but neither ghost, Where He puts them who please Him most. Like my rose, an honored place, Awaits me when I meet my Host. And you'll be there with me I'm sure, Having run this earthly race, To spend eternity in grace, Among the saints now clean and pure, And we shall see His holy face. Composed for my wife Kathleen on our thirty-first wedding anniversary. Text and Image copyright ©2009 Wayne Hepburn - All Rights Reserved