Consider the Lilies

In meadows wide where wild winds wander free,  

the lilies rise without a single plea,  

no spindle turns, no loom is set to weave,  

no anxious hand prepares the threads they leave  

untouched by care. They simply stand and grow,  

their petals open to the sun's soft glow,  

a quiet glory born of heaven's breath,  

unlabored beauty defying fear of death.  

They drink the rain that falls on rich and poor,  

they lift their faces toward the light once more,  

and in their silence preach a deeper creed:  

that providence attends the humblest seed.  

No merchant's gold, no tailor's measured art  

can match the splendor resting on each heart  

of bloom that sways in breezes light and sure,  

a living robe no king could ever procure.  

For Solomon, enthroned in cedar halls,  

arrayed in purple, draped in woven shawls  

of finest linen dyed with Tyrian hue,  

with crowns of gold and gems of every blue,  

stood radiant once beneath the temple's dome—  

yet even he, in all his pomp and home,  

lacked what the lily wears without a thought:  

a garment given, never sold or bought.  

The fields unfold their treasury each spring,  

a riot of color on creation's wing,  

where every blossom, fragile, brief, and bright,  

proclaims the Father's unremitting light.  

These flowers of a day, whose hour is short,  

whose stems will bend when autumn's chill retorts,  

are clothed in splendor till their season ends,  

then gathered, dried, and fed into the fire's bends.  

If God so tends the grass that withers fast,  

the transient green that fades when summer's past,  

if He adorns what soon will turn to ash  

with hues no human brush could ever match,  

then how much more will mercy reach to clothe  

the children fashioned in His very oath,  

who bear His image, called by name, and known  

beyond the stars, beyond the seed once sown?  

O fragile heart that frets beneath the load  

of what tomorrow brings upon the road,  

look now upon these lilies standing tall,  

untroubled by the winter yet to fall.  

Their trust is not in soil or sun alone,  

but in the hand that calls them from the stone,  

the voice that spoke the world from formless night  

and still sustains it with unfailing might.  

Let worry loosen from the soul's tight grasp,  

let fear dissolve like mist before the clasp  

of dawn's first ray. The One who paints the field  

with colors no anxiety can yield  

will not forget the one who lifts his eyes  

to seek the kingdom where true treasure lies.  

In every petal, every dewdrop's gleam,  

a promise whispers through the waking dream:  

You are not overlooked, you are not small;  

the Maker sees, and loves, and cares for all.  

So stand as lilies stand, in quiet grace,  

receiving life from an eternal place,  

where provision flows not from frantic toil  

but from the heart that nothing can despoil.  

And when the evening gathers shadows long,  

and night enfolds the world in gentle song,  

remember still the fields that bloom unseen,  

the lilies clothed in what no eye has been  

able to rival, though empires strive in vain—  

the simple truth that God will yet sustain.  

For if the grass, though brief, is robed in fire,  

how much more you, beloved, His desire?  

Rest then, and rise, and walk the day ahead,  

clothed in the care where anxious thoughts are shed,  

a child of promise, held in hands divine,  

forever robed in love that is not thine  

to earn, but given freely, full, and true—  

as lilies know, so may your heart know too.