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.