The rose stood in an ornate glass vase. Layers of passion red petals formed the womanly type curves and burst like scores of petticoats at its crown. A slender green stem dipped itself into the clear water, pushing clusters of green leaves to the lip of the vase. Sharp dark thorns only proved to heighten the beauty of this delicate masterpiece.
Many delighted in its unearthly gorgeousness and compliments were not few among its admirers. However, those who dared to approach the rose and venture to breathe its fragrance found the great flaw in this flower’s perfection. Although its exquisiteness was exceeded only perhaps by that of the angles its scent was lacking of any merit. It seemed that this great pinnacle of majesty had spent its entire existence cultivating a rapturous appearance and spent none on the deeper qualities of its character such as its aroma, its soul. For at the innermost center of this flower lay only a great empty, lonely heart. And the passionate viewer was filled with sorrow at this tragic discovery, his disappointment only growing as he walked away. The once vivid memory of its beauty, now so shallow, was dimmed and destined to fade.
Not far from this room, almost beneath the very window sill grew a different sort of specimen. A thorny rosebush was just beginning bud and only one flower in dared to bloom on its prickly stem. This rose, however, was very unlike its counterpart inside. It had no layers, but instead only five thin petals made of an almost transparent white color. No curves, no passionate hue adorned this rose. It rested upon a short-bristled stem covered with stubby green leaves. No graceful vase was made for the lowly flower and no great company came on express purpose to view it.
Yet, those who stooped to smell the flower found a treasure greater than mere appearance could give. For the fragrance which reached their senses was a most heavenly sensation. Words could not attempt to describe the smell, nor could Shakespeare himself have penned a poem half as lovely as the flower’s aroma. For those who smelt that rose, its simple appearance was soon forgot. This flower had not spent its energy on outward beauty but had followed its Maker’s plan and let Him cultivate the soul. It had followed its Master’s design and everyday soaked in the presence of His Son. And now the rose’s fragrance was divine with a depth that reached far beyond the elegance of the one in the vase. Yea, those who knelt to inhale its aroma left with a memory of its heavenliness which they could never forget.
I shall not deliberate on the meaning or how I interpret this story for that my dear reader is for you to apply. However, I shall leave you with a pointed question perhaps no less pointed then a rose’s thorn.
What flower, my friend, will you strive to be?