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The Lily

David Phelps

Down a narrow path
Where amber sunlight spills
Into a meadow fare Sheltered by the hills
A sea of golden rings billowing like waves
Bow before a bloom as if a sacred place
Leaves perfectly made as if carved from jade
Frame its petals from below
There impurest vines reflect I'm the light
A lily of the valley grows

Down a narrow path
Where pain and sorrow spill
Stabbed once oh fair

His wounds were striped as reeds
And in so
And mocked this blameless bloom
In this cursed pain
One perfectly made
Pierced by nail and blade
Riving as the crimson color flows
Buried in the night
But with mornings light
The lily of the valley rose