Precious Rose

A fragile rose begins to grow
as it blossoms forth
through the snow.
Gentle petals, so soft with dew,
a quiet splendor created new.
From deep within the silent ground,
Slowly rising without a sound.
A precious rose with beauty pure and white;
Amid those tiny petals burns a light.
Who would crush this little rose?
Who would dare?
For it would be violent to extinguish life,
as if to brutally destroy it by a knife.
Though in innocence the rose remains still,
There exist those who would mercilessly kill.
While many more may come to end this glory,
Remaining is yet another painful story:
A tiny baby begins to grow
as he blossoms forth
through the snow.
Hidden in the secret of a mother's womb,
Endangered by a sentencing to the tomb.
Though life is precious, pure and holy,
For those unborn, it has become
dangerously cruel and gory.
Dreadful as the frost that kills the rose,
Wicked are the evil seeds abortion sows.
Yet, as we would shield that rose
from being torn, we commit our lives
to saving the unborn.
Laura Marie Muglia