What is so special about a little child;
a seed, that’s become a sprout;
not meant to remain a flower so wild;
inner wisdom will soon win out.
Overcoming a period of gestation;
a baby, has now left the womb;
ordained for a life of frustration;
then, destined for the tomb.
What is her purpose; what is his role;
this devine life, granted above;
this precious, spectacular, living soul;
from sacrifice of earthly love.
What, if any, was the Master’s purpose;
was there any birth, ever, in vain;
secrets lie hidden, beneath the surface;
every birth is forever, germane.
No life, created, is ever insignificant;
nothing is like it, in all the earth;
creation of life is, itself, magnificant;
there’s purpose within each birth.
Every child, is a flower of wonder;
growing in a garden of weeds;
no flower, need be cast asunder;
for such, answers no needs.
Each child is a rose, grown in the garden;
laden with thorns, for protection;
a child’s innocence, requires no pardon;
and no child deserves rejection.
A rose is destined to shed each thorn;
and though its innocence is gone;
death can’t end; the love, that’s born;
for love was born to live on.