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The Rose-Cutting

By John Howland Beaumont / April 8, 1981



The cutting had no swaddling bands But being true to what was pledged The twig stood proud with scimitars To tell its birthright was the rose, Its wisdom, rooted in the soil, The heritage of ages. All soon the green buds opened to the sun And each grew twigs with leaves For sustenance While at the tips The rosebuds shaped each petal fold until The tree in exultation cried: Behold my heart, my soul. Omniscience made me so Of its own self Infinite and eternal. Holy, holy, hol y, Lord God Almighty.

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