A tiny bud once sprang to life beside my cottage door.
How sweet, I thought and hurried on with a smile and nothing more.
I had no time for roses then. I had better things to do.
No time to water, weed and prune or give attention to.
So the precious flower that struggled on against wind and heat and foe.
Soon blossomed wide into a rose, but not the kind to show.
For wind had torn the petals off, the heat had wilted sore.
Thorns had choked the tender stem. It was a lovely thing no more.
“How sad,” I mourned. “I could have helped, if I had only cared,
And given a little of my time, the rose would have been spared.”
And so it is with children who pass outside our door.
How sweet, we think and hurry on with a smile and little more.
We have no time for children, we have better things to do.
No time to nurture, teach and train, or give attention to.
So the precious flower that struggles on against pain and sin and foe
Soon grows into an adult, but not the kind we know.
For pain has bruised the spirit, sin has soiled sore.
Satan has broken the tender heart, they’re a lovely thing no more.
“How sad,” God mourns.
“They could have helped, if they had only cared
And given a little of their time.
That soul might have been spared.”