You single flower, breathing in the wind,
and smelling pollens of each other kind,
but not your own, be not yourself unkind,
be not to others bare as you’ve been thinned.
You can give more than what you have been given,
and I will not say that you should do so,
many have lied that lie, as well you know,
but you’ll be loved much for what you’ve forgiven.
And if you give more than you have received,
I say not that your rewards will be more—
you know well, too, that that’s a greater sore—
but I will say you will make some less grieved.
And that is no reprieve. But it is grace—
not giv’n to you, but from you, in your place.
~
That is, I think, the grace-giver’s intent
in never giving you what others got.
It is not less, but a much greater lot,
for he has, you, himself-ward thusly bent.
Think of it—he commands all men to be
as he is. And they all try, all their best,
to do it. But you, unique from the rest,
can give from nothing, as also did he.
How well he trusts you, single flower, lone
amidst the others with the counterpart.
Yours is a very noble, godly art—
you must give as he did: all, all alone.
But I will do it with you, if afar—
in aether’s confines your companions are.