“The rose of Sharon”

In sun-warmed gardens where the soft wind stirs,  
Among the hollyhocks and wild blue sage,  
There blooms a quiet beauty, rarely heard—  
The rose of Sharon gracing every age.

Not clinging to a thorn or velvet red,  
But pale and gentle, pink or ivory white,  
It opens with the blush of day instead,  
Unfurling silken petals in the light.

No regal rose presiding over thorns,  
Its grace is whispered through the emerald leaves;  
When summertime upon the morning dawns,  
The rose of Sharon’s petal robe she weaves.

A symbol sown through ancient sacred song—  
The Song of Songs, where lovers softly yearn—  
A blossom after rainfall, sweet and strong,  
With roots in quiet faith and hope’s return.

Beloved in humble gardens everywhere,  
A shrubby balm to bees and longing hearts.  
The rose of Sharon teaches how to care—  
In gentle ways, true loveliness imparts.

So let us look for beauty, well-concealed,  
Not always brash, but patient as the dawn—  
And find the rose of Sharon, softly healed,  
With every lovely petal shining on.

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