THE LORD'S LILIES OF THE FIELD
"Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." [Luke 12:27, The Holy Bible, KJV]
We Are The Lord's Lilies Of The Field, Lovingly Nurtured And Revived, In The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death.
We are the Lord's lilies of the field, nurtured and perfected, in the valley of the shadow of death. We are frail lilies of trembling dew, who bow their heads and quietly weep, beneath the burden of worldly sorrow, in the dark forest of affliction. We are lilies who bloom together, in an alpine field, who tenderly rise from the damp dirt and for a brief while, every frail flower displaying its glory in the sun, in this moment of morning to midday, experienced by every new bud, held tenderly in the mind of the Maker, who, as they perish, gives them life forever.
And oh, how beautiful it is, when two delicate snow petalled solitary flowers, momentarily intertwine, when they become the one force of flower, growing inexplicably together. But what anguish, when the long night begins to creep along the western edge, of the rocky slope and the lilies, through their own frailty, fall apart, one from the other, bruised petals drying, along the grey mountain dust.
For we are perishing flowers, in a perishing place, who each must depart in our own way. So while valleys of lilies already pale, fade with the last twilight of this world, Jesus comes to collect his own bouquet, each frail flower of grief, to be tenderly gathered into his cloth, by his gentle hands, still shining from the wounds and his eyes that will glisten with sorrow and concern. This solitary harvester, who planted the seeds of life, is the one king, who will make us live again. And so, we tremble, in the long dark wind of the valley of death, having known somewhere within, the glory of Him, who created us and who loves us still. And as the sun sets, as it must do, upon all the valleys and mountain tops, we cling to the promise of Him, who is greater than the foundation of the earth and who is larger than the galaxies, the living stone, the author of our lives, whom we build our faith upon.
So now, when we stand, each lily spoken into being and sheltered by Him, each lily opening her centre of pollen, under His perfect guidance and by His perfect timing, we stand against the brutal season of time and the accursed climate of death and the long dark night of malice. And we shine and tremble in our brief moment here, watered by The Word aside from the rain and lit by The Word apart from the sun.
We do not perish as the world around us, in that old shadow that creeps down the valley. And even when the mountain tops move past midnight, of the last autumn day, the Lord's lilies of the field, will shine brighter still, without stem or leaf or petal, to hold them upright and without the perfume, that once scented by the early morning dew, would bring butterfly like tiny sails before the chill wind and birdcall for miles, for as the last sun sets upon this valley of death, the Lord's lilies will stand in the fields, sustained by a light brighter than the sun, in the undying fields of flourishing lilies. Oh, see how they sway and bend for Him, in the sweet gardens of paradise, prepared just for them, in the lit unending kingdom of God.
We Are The Lord's Lilies Of The Field, Lit From Within, Perfected And Sustained, By the One Who Is Perfect. |