That familiar rich shade of red. As she reaches out to finger each exquisite petal, the sunlight glistens off a lone raindrop, perched precariously on the edge of an expanse of green. Biting her lip, she hesitates. For the first time, she realises, in full measure, the cruel significance of every innocent-looking thorn.
Looking heavenward, she thanks God for the pane of glass distancing her from it.
That drop might fall; it might not; the decision was not hers to make, but His.
"These things I have spoken to you so that My joy may be in you, and that your joy may be made full."
So tired of feeling...
"Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."
